Untold Story
by SilentBat18
Summary: Histories are never simple, and secrets will eventually be uncovered. Jazz's past is finally revealed in this sequel to A New Beginning. RE-EDIT COMPLETE! and yes, it's worth rereading.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Well ladies and gents, took me several months of late night and nonstop reading, but here it is. The edited version i have been promising everyone. I have worked on it so much, i'm actually sick of it, but i hope you guys aren't. So what is there to expect? Well, i've changed a character completely, many chapters have been rewritten and i added an epilogue that will blow your mind! I hope everyone finds this version lived up to the hype i may have created. Finally, please review either to tell me it was good, meh, to suggest ideas for future fics, or just want to say hey (if you don't have an FF account, i use my profile for replies). Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy! **_

* * *

"Terry?" Jazz calls out in a small voice that could barely be heard. "Terry?" She tries again, the name dissolving into the dark expanse surrounding her.

Her heart begins to pound; the silence slowly creates a panic that engulfs her.

"Terry!" She frantically cries again, trying to move her legs forward but failing.

A sob chokes out another attempt to call the name before fear steals the strength of her legs. She desperately hugs herself, hoping that her emaciated arms will keep imaginary trolls from ripping her soul to shreds; but she knows she's losing the battle. Every minute that passes, she feels herself shrink and break, slowly turning into a hollow shell. The growing emptiness makes her feel vulnerable, knowing all it'll take is a light gust of wind to scatter that shell apart. She tries one last time to call out for Terry, but no sound comes out.

"He isn't coming," a voice suddenly says, forcing Jazz's eyes to look up. Her jaw drops with surprise, but the woman's face staring back maintains a dull expression. "He isn't coming," the brunette repeats, her gray eyes suddenly twinkly. "And he never will, not for you."

Jazz tries to cover he ears against those words, but she's paralyzed by shock.

"He'd never come for you," the older woman sneers, relishing the fear in Jazz's wide eyes.

"No," she gasps.

"Face it," the woman crouches to Jazz's level. "You're not worth helping. You're just a liar…"

"No."

"A coward…"

"No."

"A mistake," she hisses into her ear.

"No!" Jazz suddenly cries out, shooting up as her eyes fly open.

Panting, Jazz looks around to find herself sitting up in bed, her sweaty bangs sticking to her brow. She frantically studies her arms and hands, relieved to find the emaciation was also part of the dream.

She tries to control the sharpness of her breath in an attempt to calm her beating heart. It's been a while since nightmares evaded her sleep, but they've been getting worse the last few days. Once composed, Jazz rests her head back on her pillow, but her eyes remain wide open for fear of picturing that woman's face again.

* * *

Nothing beats a real Cuban cigar, a truth Martin Cooney is very much aware of as he relishes the feel of the rolled tobacco between his stubby fingers. He leans back in his plush desk chair with a satisfied sigh and admires the cigar's dry yet supple feel. Reaching for his cutter, he places the rounded tip between the blades; but before he could squeeze the handles, a knock on the door interrupts his routine.

"What?" He irritably asks, turning his chair away from the door and facing the window behind him.

"Mr. Cooney," a tall, burly man greets as he steps in. He takes his signature fedora in his hands as he approaches the desk. "We got a problem."

"Which is?"

The lackey hears the clip of the cutter and cringes when he realizes he interrupted his boss' smoke break, but the issue is too pressing to push aside. "Franco, he ain't talkin'."

Cooney swivels his leather chair just enough to raise a brow at the man nervously twirling his hat in his fingers. A tense moment of silence passes before he turns away, the back of the chair replacing his grimace.

"Call Thorn. Twenty grand; twenty-five if he tries for more," he finally orders, taking out a zippo lighter and flipping it open.

"Yes, sir," the occupant replies before spinning on his heel and hurrying away.

Unless he wants Thorn to practice on him, he knows he has to get out of there before the smokes starts rising.

Thorn takes his time sliding the plastic cards through the cred reader as he counts the payment agreed upon. He bites down on the toothpick sitting in the corner of his mouth when the total comes to twenty-five thousand and looks up at the burly man, no longer nervous now that he's away from his employer.

"His name's Franco," he starts, crossing overly muscular arms over his chiseled chest. "We need to know-"

"I don't care," Thorn interrupts with a gravely whisper, setting the creds aside as he rises to a height equal to Cooney's lackey. His green eyes twinkle with excitement when he continues to say, "just let me know when to stop."

He moves past him and enters the room where Franco is tied up and gagged. Franco, however, doesn't look like the typical victim; the bored glance he gives Thorn displays an uncommon confidence instead of the expected fear, but it doesn't discourage Thorn.

Bending over so their faces are level, Thorn pulls the gag off of Franco's mouth. "If you expect me to talk," Franco jeers, " you're going to be disappointed."

"Actually, I pulled that off so I can hear you scream," Thorn replies with cold, smiling eyes that snuff his victim's confidence.

Pulling the toothpick out of his mouth, Thorn holds up the half he hadn't chewed on, studying the sharp, wooden tip with his eyes before his gaze drifts down to Franco's hand restrained on the armrest. He takes hold of Franco's index finger, lifting it slightly so he could gently wedge the toothpick end between the nail and skin. His cold eyes drift up to Franco's petrified face, and with a pathological grin, violently shoves the sharpened wood into the quick, relishing Franco's agonized scream.

"Let's get started," Thorn grins as he straightens and pulls out a full box of toothpicks from his pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

A painful grunt echoes throughout the cave when Jazz hits the mat.

"Let's try that again," Terry's impatient voice follows.

The two have been sparring for the last hour on a floor below the main area of the cave. Though, with Jazz ending up sprawled on the ground most of the time, it seems more like Terry is punishing her than helping hone her skills. Once she is up again, Jazz strikes a fighter's stance ready for Terry's move. He reaches out an arm aiming to grab her by the neck. She counters the move by grabbing his wrist, twisting it behind his back and then bringing her free arm around wrapping it around Terry's neck in a chokehold.

But Terry isn't impressed, especially since he notices one of her legs is planted close to his. He takes the opportunity to trip her by kicking her foot out. Stumbling back, she lets go of his arm secured behind his back. Freed from her grip, Terry spins in time to grab her wrist, pull it behind her back and shove her shoulder, forcing her down again. She lets out yet another grunt when she hits the floor, hard.

He crouches beside her and holds out a helping hand. "You seem a little distracted tonight. Something you want to talk about?" He asks as he pulls her up.

She brushes herself off before replying, "Yeah, how bout you ease up on the ass kicking. I understand you're good, but you don't have to rub it in my face."

"Rub it in your-? Excuse me if you're the one lacking skill tonight. Hell, even Matt can tackle you right now without trying."

"I'm giving this my best shot, McGinnis," she shoots back, frustration getting the best of her. "I thought you were supposed to be _teaching_ me, not showing off like some self-centered, arrogant twip!"

"At least I'm not acting like a repressed drama queen!"

"I'll show you drama queen!" Jazz yells before she crouches and sweeps Terry's legs from under him.

When he falls back on the mat, Jazz leaps on top of him and pins his wrists to the floor. Thinking she is victorious, a wide grin spreads across her face; but before she could gloat about it, Terry uses his still free legs to wrap around her waist before throwing her off of him; when she lands face down, Terry gladly takes his turn to pin her to the floor with a knee and secure both her wrists behind her back.

"Now, where were we? Oh, right. You were about to tell me what's causing you to severely suck in tonight's training," he says with a smile. She tries to wiggle free, but to no avail.

"And if I don't?" She grunts.

"Then I hope you're comfortable, 'cause I can stay like this all night."

"Whatever is bothering me doesn't concern you, McGinnis."

"Pretend it does."

"Why would you want to know, anyway?"

"Because making me wait six months is long enough, and I'm not willing to wait another six months to know who I'm working with. So I suggest you start talking."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Jazz," he cautions, "I can do a lot worse than this position."

She lets out a frustrated sigh, which ends up sounding more like a puff of air on account of Terry's weight resting on her back and keeping her from breathing deeply. "It was just a dream I had last night, no big deal."

Terry lets go of her wrists and leans back on his haunches, pulling his knee off of her. Jazz flips over and sits cross-legged, rubbing her wrists as she glares at him.

"What was your dream about?" He asks when Jazz doesn't continue.

"My mom." The dryness of her tone piques his curiosity.

"And? Did something happen?"

Jazz's pink eyes bore into his blue ones before she replies, "Yeah."

"What?"

"You ask too many questions."

"Noted. You were saying?"

"Forget it," she sighs as she rises.

"Jazz," Terry scolds as he stands. "If you want this partnership to work, you'll need to open up a little more than that."

"Our partnership is fine; it's been fine the last six months, hasn't it?"

"That's not guaranteeing anything. Look, take it from someone who's been on the job for five years: you're not gonna last long here if you don't have someone you could vent to, and something tells me Bruce won't be volunteering to be that person. So the reason I'm asking you to open up is for your own sake."

She hesitates as she considers this, letting each haunting secret to flow through her mind as she calculates the risks of letting them out. Although they've been weighing her down for a long time, she decides against giving in to the temptation, somehow believing that remaining unattached is the only way she can protect herself. She locks her pink eyes with his and stubbornly shakes her head.

"No," she states, turning away.

But Terry's patience has been pushed too far; he grabs her arm forcing her to stay, to face him, to answer to him.

"Know that I'm done waiting, Douglas," he replies, his brow creasing into an angry glare.

He lets go of her arm before stalking off, leaving Jazz to toil with feelings of guilt and fury. Bruce's eyes follow his protégé as he moves to the medical station on the main floor. He watches him open a cupboard, pull out an ice pack, then slam it shut before crushing the bag in his hand with unnecessary force.

"Something on your mind?" Bruce starts as Terry shakes the bag to activate the contents within it. Once the ice forms, he presses it against the wrist Inque had crushed during their almost fatal encounter seven months ago.

"I don't want to talk about it," Terry mumbles, taking a seat on the steel table. Bruce lets a few quiet minutes pass, innately knowing Terry isn't done; and as if on cue, the young man continues, "I mean, who the hell does she think she is? Some burned spy who's led a life of assassination and she'd have to kill me if she talks?" Bruce quietly listens, knowing not to interrupt the boy's chance to vent. "I've been patient, and I trust your judgment, but does she really expect to work with me when I know nothing about who she is or where she came form? For all I know, she could be a freakin' alien planning to suck my brains out when I'm not looking. God, I just don't get her," he finishes with a sigh.

After allowing a short moment of pause to pass, Bruce swivels his chair around to face the console. "She isn't a spy," he finally says, making Terry scoff. "She isn't an alien, either."

"Would have explained a lot if she was," he shakes his head, knowing if he wasn't so pissed, Bruce's comments would have made him grin.

He gingerly rolls his hand, wincing once when his wrist responds to the movement with a sharp pain.

"I just don't know what to do anymore," Terry confesses, his eyes turning down with shame for having given up on her so easily.

"You don't have to do anything, McGinnis. Just let her be."

"This coming from a man who prides himself on never having to rely on his sidekicks." Bruce shoots him a glare menacing enough to make him mumble an apology. "I didn't mean it; I'm just on edge."

Bruce lets the insult go, understanding Terry's frustrations are what drive him to spout things he doesn't mean, but they aren't baseless. The boy is right; working with someone you know little about can get irksome, which can lead to consequential distraction. The drive to protect Terry from getting hurt again almost prompts Bruce to just confess what Jazz had told him in confidence. Good thing almost doesn't count.

"She'll come around eventually," he tries reassuring the young man.

"Whatever," he sighs with indifference as he looks away. He really is giving up on her.

Not knowing what else to say, Bruce hesitantly returns to his work, wondering what Alfred would have done if Terry had come sulking to him.


	3. Chapter 3

"Docks, pier seventeen, midnight tomorrow," Thorn says as he wipes his bloody hands on a towel. "Says the shipment will be in crates carrying paper," he continues telling Cooney, his current employer.

"How many people will be there?"

He shrugs as he tosses the towel in the trash. "He doesn't know."

"Then get back in there and find out," Cooney orders, making Thorn raise a brow at him.

"When I say he doesn't know, _he doesn't know_," Thorn emphasizes with eyes narrowing into a threat.

Cooney recognizes the glare and quickly lightens the tone of his voice. "I see," he smiles submissively. Everyone knows you don't piss Thorn off unless you want to end up being his new pincushion. "Guess we'll have to find someone else who does know."

"It'll cost you another twenty-five grand," Thorn replies, his face returning to an apathetic expression.

"Fine. Boon," Cooney turns to his lackey. "Find the girl."

* * *

Being Charlie's girl, Katrina had never felt afraid of walking Gotham's street at night. Everyone in the criminal world knew her, and if they didn't, Charlie made sure they do. Last time someone tried to lay a hand on the blond, he ended up with a couple of stumps. There's nothing like that feeling of invincibility, having others fear you, respect you. The thought draws an arrogant smile on Katrina's face as she rides the elevator up to her penthouse suite.

"Pumpkin!" She calls out when the doors open and she steps into the lavish condo. "I'm home! Guess what I got you at the auction this morning," she goes on even though Charlie has yet to reply. "I ain't tellin' ya, but here's a hint, it's in the garage," she squeals with delight.

She finds her way to the living room but discovers it empty, so she heads to the study knowing that's where he usually conducts his business. It turns up empty as well, but she finds a note addressed to her on his desk. Picking it up, she reads:

_Sorry Sugar, urgent meeting. I'll see you tonight though._

_C_

Scoffing with disappointment, she crumples the paper and tosses it aside, mumbling how typical it is for him to do something like that. It doesn't take long for her to shrug it off though, resolving to enjoy a hot bubble bath and the box of chocolates Charlie had left her.

With the treat in tow, Katrina creates a trail of clothes as she makes her way to the bathroom. Wrapping a silk robe around herself, she turns the tub's faucets on and sprinkles fragrant bath salts as the water pours in. She lights the candles surrounding the tub and smiles when she remembers a bottle of wine is chilling in the fridge. Setting her chocolates down, she hums a tune as she hurries over to the kitchen and opens the wine cooler under the kitchen island. Picking out a vintage pinot noir, she straightens up and turns to find the corkscrew.

Just as she opens the appropriate drawer though, a strong arm grabs her from behind, forcing her to drop the bottle. Before she could scream, a chloroform-saturated cloth is forced against her mouth, and within seconds, she falls limp in Boon's arms.

* * *

Seated all the way in the back of her cognitive psychology class, Jazz leans a cheek against a propped fist as her bored eyes follow the professor at the front of the class pacing the room. The seemingly endless lecture is covering memory processing and all the useless information that goes along with it. She inwardly sighs as she glances at the clock on her laptop, wondering why the last five minutes of class always go by the slowest; maybe next week's lecture on time perception could shed light on the phenomenon.

She thought majoring in psychology would be a lot more interesting than it actually is, and halfway into her second Junior semester, she quickly realizes she needs to find yet another major. She doubts she'll even graduate at this rate.

Before she could roll her eyes with annoyance for the fifth time, the professor finally stops pacing and dismisses the class before calling out next week's reading assignment. Without wasting another moment, Jazz shuts her computer's lid, tucks it under her arm, and rushes out of class with bag in tow, never bothering to talk to anyone she walks past.

Before she makes it out into the sunny April day, she decides to head to the Registrar's department to pick up yet another brochure on majors Gotham State University has to offer. Reaching the top floor of the two hundred-year-old building, she turns down the hallway where the room she's visited too many times in the past three years is located. As she approaches it though, she discovers someone she didn't expect to run into slouched on the bench outside the door. His raven head is resting against the wall as a deep sigh lifts and deflates his chest.

"Hey," she quietly greets as she reaches his side.

Terry raises his head enough to look up at her. "Hey," is the reply before his head falls back again.

"What are you doing here?" She asks as she takes a seat beside him.

He holds up a folded piece of paper before replying, "registering for a class that needed my advisor's approval. Admin has yet to figure out how to do that online for some reason. You?"

She looks over to where a stand carrying brochures line the wall. She picks the one she needs and waves in it Terry's direction. "Switching to yet another major."

"Is it too personal if I ask why?" Terry unexpectedly asks.

The snide tone makes Jazz wince; they haven't spoken since their last argument, and he just made it clear he hasn't forgotten about that night.

"I guess I deserve that," she mumbles, her gaze dropping to her feet.

He doesn't reply, or move for that matter, allowing the tension between them to build. He meant it when he said he was done waiting, and his irritation is taking its toll on Jazz. She lifts her eyes to study the man beside her, inwardly cringing with guilt when she realizes how rigid his body had grown since she sat next to him.

She never intended to hurt him; hell, she didn't even know he cared enough to get hurt. Although they had a tendency to get into arguments whenever one of them disagreed about something, Terry had still considered her more than just a nightly partner, something Jazz never realized before now. Terry had told her what happened to his family, never shying away as he described the pain and hurt that temporarily consumed him. Snapping at him was unnecessary and unfair, and gazing at the hardened face beside her teaches her that lesson.

Sick of the guilt gnawing at her, she opens her mouth to recount the story that would redeem their friendship, but quickly shuts it when a woman steps out of the office and stares at the two.

"McGinnis?" She asks, bringing Terry to straighten up.

Jazz watches Terry rise to his feet and sling his bag over his shoulder before walking past her, following the woman who had called on him. She groans as she slumps deeper into the bench, irritated by the chance that was stolen from her. Resolving to find another opportunity, Jazz reluctantly gets to her feet and walks back down the hallway as she rehearses what she has – _needs_ – what she needs to say.

* * *

"Twenty-six-year-old Katrina Fleming has been found dead late last night in an abandoned warehouse," the digital news caster starts before its image recedes to reveal the crime scene swarmed with cops. "The cause of death has not yet been release, but investigators note she has been tortured in the same manner as Anthony Vette, whose body was found last month in Gotham's harbor. The alleged suspect is known only as Thorn for the moment and we urge anyone who has information regarding his whereabouts to please call the number on the screen."

"Thorn, huh," Terry starts after Bruce turns down the video's volume.

"Named after the toothpicks he used to torture his victims."

"Ouch."

"You don't know the half of it," Bruce replies as he pulls up the crime scene images of the two victims covered in blood and hundreds of toothpicks pricked into their skin.

"Oh, geez," he gasps with disgust.

"He's ruthless," his mentor continues, closing the images and pulling up his MO list. "He doesn't choose his targets; he's a freelancer instead, his victims being people of interest to his employers. Mobs particularly like him since he's loyal to no one but himself and will dig up information regarding rival mobs. Although deaths are unintentional, he doesn't seem to care if they happen."

"He sounds charming. So where can I find him?"

"That's the problem. The mafia was the last to employ his services to uncover information on the drug shipment the Irish mob was expecting." He pulls up Interpol articles regarding the operation the police failed to stop. "Katrina was linked to the Irish mob by her involvement with their leader, Charlie. They must have used what she knew to intercept the drugs."

"Who called Thorn?"

"Martin Cooney," Bruce replies, pulling up an image of the porky man with a receding hairline. "He's in charge of stings like that."

"Cooney?" Terry asks with a raised brow, finding the not-so-very Italian name unusual.

"Godfather's loyal son-in-law," Bruce explains and Terry nods.

"I take it you want me to have a chat with Cooney tonight?"

"Last known address," Bruce replies, showing him a map of the city with a red dot pinning the location.

Stepping away from the console, Terry turns and starts heading to an alcove but stops short when he finds Jazz making her way down the staircase. Their gazes meet for a second before Terry looks away and continues towards the shadows, leaving Jazz to awkwardly knead the back of her neck from the encounter.

"I'm here," she announces to Bruce. "So what's up?"

"I need you to drive me to the airport," Bruce explains, leaning on his cane as he stands.

"Where's Terry headed?" She asks before following him up the stairs.

"We have a lead on Thorn."

"You want me to tag along after I drop you off?"

"No," Bruce gruffly replies, surprising her.

He's more than aware of the tension between the two adults even though he makes no attempt to help resolve it. He knows tension like that on the field can be dangerous, so he would rather keep them separated for the time he'll be gone.

"Use the Interpol database to gather as much info as you can on him," he orders instead.

"Uh, okay," she replies, turning when Terry emerges in his suit.

She watches him pull the cowl on and hop into the Batmobile without so much as glancing at her before he speeds out of the cave. _'I'll find the time,'_ she promises herself with a sigh.

* * *

A half hour later, Jazz returns to the now empty cave. By her side is the always loyal Ace looking up at her with eyes that seem to suggest she better get to work. She raises a brow at the demanding dog before making her way towards the computer. Making herself comfortable on the cushioned chair, she continues where Bruce had left off.

Although she understands the urgency of the matter, especially after Bruce briefed her in the car, boredom soon claims her. It isn't long before she starts using Interpol to read up on random people's profiles. Out of curiosity, she opens up Max's first and reads on:

Name: Maxine Gibson

Middle name: Clarice

Age: 22

Hair: Pink

Eyes: Brown

Height: 5'6"

Father: George

Mother: Jessica

Siblings: Amanda (sister)

Address: 532 Grand Central Ave, Gotham City

Crimes committed:

Arrested for trespassing blocked off construction site

Disturbing the peace

She smirks when she discovers Max had been arrested, which isn't something surprising. With a mouth like Max's, she is bound to get into trouble some time. Jazz closes the file, and opens a few more on her friends, professors, and even the guy at the coffee shop she frequents. After reading and discovering some of them to have surprisingly been arrested for DUIs, disturbing the peace, or indecent exposure, she sits back in her chair and looks down, her pink eyes meeting Ace's demanding brown ones.

"Don't tell me Bruce rubbed off on you too, pooch," she says with a smile. She scratches just behind his ear, setting off the stereotypical shaking leg that makes her giggle. "I bet you love me now." Letting go of the dog, she once again sits back, and stares at the enormous screen.

But before she returns to the research, she opens one more file, one that is very familiar to her but unknown to the rest of the world unless they know where to look.

An old friend had shown her how to hack into Interpol and deactivate a profile to make herself invisible. Although they had a falling out, her gratitude to him never wavered. Her life would have been a lot more different had she never learned the skill. She had chosen to forget about that life, never believing she would want to lay eyes on that profile ever again; but with the tension between her and Terry, she finds herself reactivating the ghost profile.

With the process finished in a matter of minutes, she restarts the search, typing her name, place of residence, and physical attributes: Jasmine Marie Douglas, Gotham City, USA, black hair, gray eyes. She stares at the last two words, a pair she hasn't read in over three years. She sighs and hits the search button. In less that a second, a file pops up and she hesitantly selects it to read the contents. It only takes the first line of her history to prompt an old memory to intrude on her thoughts.

She remembers standing in a large, bare room and staring up at the heavy wooden door propped open by a woman she can never forget. For some reason, she remembers the old Persian rug beneath her shiny black shoes, worn down by all the other little feet that have treaded on it. She was no older than four, the green dress she wore making her appear short for her age. Her jet-black hair was styled into two even pigtails on each side of her head and a fringe that reached her eyebrows. Her lips, red as cherries against her pale complexion, were pulled down into a frown as tears began to pool in her large gray eyes. She reached an arm out trying to grab for someone, but no one came to comfort her. She was left alone to cry as she watched the door close, locking out a life of happiness.

Jazz stares into empty space as her mind races to sort through the different emotions triggered by the memory. Though her face remains blank and expressionless, her rosy eyes glaze over with tears threatening to roll down her cheeks. Suddenly, an incoming call from Terry interrupts the chaos going on in her head, snapping her back into reality. Using the back of her hand, she quickly wipes away the tears and answers the call. However, she's quick to discover that the call was accidentally activated when Terry had received a powerful blow to the head.

She watches the background shift as Terry falls to the ground, his head turning to the side. The recording cameras embedded in his lenses rest on black boots, and when Terry doesn't move, Jazz realizes he must have been knocked out. She watches the boots step forward before their owner crouches down to reveal a sinister face with green eyes twinkling with excitement.

"I was wondering when we were going to meet," he sneers before turning to someone behind him. "This one's on the house, Cooney."

Having heard enough, Jazz knows Terry needs her help. Terminating the link, she quickly traces his position, leaps off the chair, and rushes to change into her suit.


	4. Chapter 4

She followed his suit's tracer to some abandoned warehouse is east Gotham, where old steel factories have been shut down for quite a while. Without wasting another moment, she leaps off her Batcycle and takes to the air, landing on the roof where giant skylights provide the necessary visibility. Two people now occupy the room: Batman tied to a chair with chains and a tall, burly man with short, light brown hair standing by a table lined with anything and everything sharp. She guesses Cooney must have split during the time it took for her to get there.

Without giving Thorn a chance to even pick his instrument of preference, she crashed through the skylight, landing between her new opponent and the unconscious Batman as a shower of broken glass sprinkle around her. With Batgirl joining the rendezvous, Thorn smiles as he reaches for a dagger.

"Must be my birthday," he quips as he twirls the weapon in his hand.

"Or mine depending on how you look at it," she replies before she releases a batarang and aims it at Thorn's armed hand.

Surprisingly though, he dodges the flying weapon with ease before he rushes at Batgirl. She leaps up and over him just before he can tackle her, and without giving him a chance to react, fires a bola that snags his ankles. Although he falls forward, he adapts by rolling into a somersault and uses his knife to cut the chords binding his legs. Jumping onto his now free legs, he turns to face Batgirl, a smile still branded on his face.

"This'll be fun," he teases before producing a handful of long, steel needles from seemingly nowhere.

He expertly launches them all at once, and it takes all the speed Batgirl can muster to get out of range, but she quickly realizes it's just a distraction. The next thing she knows, Thorn comes speeding towards her, taking advantage of the momentary pause caused by the needles, and connects a fist to her jaw. Another one lands on her face after she blocks the knife from slicing her throat. She ducks under a second attempt to cut her and elbows Thorn in the gut before an undercut punch drives into his chin, forcing him to take two steps back.

Batgirl lunges at him again, but he counters her move with a side step, which she responds to with a high kick. Instead of connecting with his jaw, he manages to grab her ankle and swing her around, slamming her into the adjacent wall. Landing face down, Batgirl lifts herself on hands and knees, but Thorn's quick reactions brings a foot to drive into her side, winding her. Collapsing back to the floor, Thorn takes the opportunity to grab her roughly by the neck and pull her to her feet.

"Not going to lie," he starts, pinning her to the wall behind her. "Thought you had more fight in you."

Glaring at her smiling offender, Batgirl releases a flash pellet onto his chest, which explodes on impact and fills the room with a momentarily blinding light. He curses as he lets go of her to cover his eyes, giving Batgirl the chance to crouch and ram a shoulder into his gut. The force of the blow pushes him off balance and sends him falling on his side. The landing causes him to inadvertently let go of his dagger, sending it skidding across the floor.

Unhappy with the how easily she knocked him down, Thorn sweeps a leg out, catching her foot in the process and pulling it out from under her as he rolls onto his back. She falls forward, but before she hits the ground, he catches her by the neck as he rises. He slams her against the wall as he tightens his grip, making her struggle to free herself. She throws a fist forward and punches him in the nose, but the effect barely fazes him. Instead, it only tightens the grip, slowly chocking her. She tries kicking him, but that too fails her.

She has yet to notice the way his eyes have glazed over with raw anger, the only thing that keeps him from feeling the pain of the blows. To him, the bloody nose and sore ribs don't exist; what does is the insubordinate woman struggling in his hand who managed to push him over. Nobody pushes Thorn around, and whoever thinks they can, won't forget their mistake.

Desperate for air, Jazz tries to get out of his hold by scratching at his arm with her claws, but despite his bleeding arm, his grip doesn't loosen. Beginning to suffocate, her body loses strength; however, just before she passes out, Thorn throws her into the opposing wall across the room. Falling to the floor, Batgirl gasps for air, unable to do anything else until her lungs fill with oxygen. She couldn't get away in time when Thorn stalks towards her before once again wrapping his large hand around her neck, picking her up, and slamming her against the wall in the same manner as earlier.

"You know what's worse than being chocked to death?" He hisses in her ear. "Getting a chance to breath before chocking again," he finishes as his grip tightens.

She wants to scream, beg for him to stop, but she can't utter the words. Panic consumes her as she scratches at his arms, praying for freedom, and just like the last time, the hand loosens when she's about to black out. She gulps a lungful of air before he slams her against the wall and robs her of breath yet again.

Thorn's smile returns as he watches Batgirl writhe and fight for her life. He knows she must be pleading for him to stop by now, so he loosens his grip enough for her to speak. However, instead of the desperate cries to be let go, Batgirl manages to utter something none of his victims ever had the courage to do.

"Pathetic," is the single word she croaks.

"What?" He growls.

"Pa-the-tic," she repeats, pronouncing every syllable and taking away Thorn's single reason for torturing victims.

"Arrogant little bitch," he curses with murderous anger returning to his eyes.

He pulls out a butterfly knife from a back pocket and flips it open before pressing it against her face.

"That's a mistake you're going to regret," he goes on to say as the knife's sharp point moves from her cheek down to her chin, leaving a trail of blood as it travels.

She tries not to let her fear show on her face now that she finally understands it's what he thrives on; but the resolute face only pushes him forward, invites him to think of the diverse ways he can make her scream.

"Do you know why you feel pain?" He asks as he pulls the blade away from her face and begins tracing her neck with it instead. "Nerve endings," he explains, stopping momentarily on her jugular before moving down. "Those little bastards are everywhere. Skin, bone," the knife moves across her collarbone and stops over her left shoulder joint. "Tendons," he grins before forcing the blade to disappear into her shoulder and making her scream in agony. "Ligaments," he continues, twisting the hilt and starting a new wave of cries.

She tries punching him with her good arm, but the lack of air paired with excruciating pain makes her attempt at freedom feeble. Her pain, however, doesn't go unheard; the shrieks manage to pierce through Batman's cloud of unconsciousness, slowly bringing him back around.

"You know why they call me Thorn?" He continues when her screams die down. "Because those little barbs you find on a rose stem are a nerve's worst nightmare." She grunts when he tugs the blade out and returns to the task of tracing the tip across her body, this time moving down her side. "They're small enough to prick you anywhere." It changes directions when it reaches the end of her rib cage and moves across towards her stomach. "And when they hit the right spot," he whispers, settling the knife's point just below her heart, "the pain can make you beg for mercy."

The steel blade pierces through her protective suit as Thorn stabs it deep into her stomach, smiling when her eyes grow wide with pain. A choke escapes her throat as her body slowly goes limp.

"No!" Batman suddenly yells, having fully awakened a few seconds ago and witnessing the fatal assault.

Thorn pulls out the knife as he turns to face his initial victim. "Glad you could make the show," he jeers as he lets go of Batgirl and wipes the bloody knife on his pants.

Horrified, Batman watches his partner topple to the ground, laying face down in a growing pool of blood. His eyes suddenly narrow with fury before snapping back to Thorn's smug face. Accessing the suit's power boost, Batman breaks free of his chains and leaps forward with speed that Thorn cannot cope with, rightfully wiping the smile off his face.

The black figure doesn't show signs of hesitation or mercy when it starts its assault on Thorn with blow after blow. First a punch, then two kicks, some powerful enough to break bones. Thorn got lucky earlier when he snuck up on Batman and knocked him out with a well-placed blow to the head. But now the hero is vengefully coming at him with full force. It isn't like fighting Batgirl; this time Thorn is outmatched, and when he falls back disoriented and beaten, he has no intention of teaching Batman the same lesson.

Batman then rushes to Batgirl's side, carefully turning her over on her back to discover she has already blacked out. He presses two fingers to her neck, but when the suit fails to pick up a pulse, his eyes go wide with fear. He starts a round of CPR, managing in between pumps to get a hold of Barbara's radio frequency.

"I need you," he says when he locks on the signal.

Frowning, Barbara picks up the receiver on her desk. "Who is this?"

"Batman," is the short reply before he breathes into Jazz's mouth.

The older woman straightens in her desk chair. "What's wrong?"

"I have Thorn at the abandoned steel warehouse, but we need an ambulance. Hurry," he says before terminating the link. The urgency in his voice prompts Barbara to leap off her chair and order her squad to head out immediately.

Knowing the paramedics are on their way, Terry decides to strip Jazz of her suit and claim she was Thorn's latest victim. It's the only way to get her to a hospital without compromising their identities. So he quickly sets to work pulling off the suit before returning to counting compressions he pumps on her chest.

He stops for a second and checks for a pulse using the suit's sensitive sensors. The unmistakable beep sets off a breath of relief, but it's short-lived when Jazz's chest doesn't rise with respiration. So he presses his mouth against hers again and blows hoping to stimulate her lungs. After a couple breaths, he pulls away and gratefully sighs when she sucks in air on her own. She's not out of danger yet, though. The wound beneath her ribs continues to gush out blood, so pulling out all the gauze his belt compartment holds, he applies pressure to the leaking wound all the while praying for Barbara to arrive soon.

Moments later, the doors burst open as a police squad rushes in with guns aimed and ready to fire. Barbara is the last one in, clearly surprised when she finds Batman leaning over a girl in a bra and skin tight shorts while Thorn lays unconscious on the other side of the room. Quickly getting over the initial shock, she orders her team to detain Thorn before rushing Batman's side.

"What the hell happened?" She gasps.

"Where's EMT?" He asks instead.

"On their way up."

"Here, keep applying the pressure," he instructs as he places her hands on the wound.

Once she takes over, she watches him discreetly bunch up a second suit as he rises, giving her the clue she is looking for. The realization of who the bleeding victim on the floor really is widens her eyes with surprise.

"Just tell them she was Thorn's latest target," he quickly explains just before the paramedics rush in with a stretcher.

Before Batman has the chance to fly out with Jazz's suit in tow, Barbara calls out, "wait! What's her name?"

"Jasmine Douglas," he replies before flying out through the broken skylight as paramedics kneel by Barbara and take over.


	5. Chapter 5

He had not anticipated the night to go so wrong. All he set out to do was get the necessary information from Cooney that could help track Thorn down. He didn't expect to run into Thorn or be knocked out by him so easily, but even then he never considered himself in real trouble.

'_Why the hell did she come?'_ He asks himself as an angry fist slams against the Batmobile's dashboard.

A new feature Bruce had added a while ago would have protected him for as long as he was unconscious. If Thorn attempted to remove his suit, it would have electrified him on contact, stopping him from trying to unmask him and turn him into another victim. She should have known Thorn would rather practice on a victim who's awake, so even though he was out, the threat wouldn't have been serious until he woke up.

'_So why did she come?'_ He asks himself again.

When the sirens begin wailing and the ambulance takes off, Terry watches it speed away before following it to Gotham General. Landing in the alley behind the hospital, he changes out of his suit and into the spare clothes he keeps hidden in the car's compartment and rushes out, heading to the emergency room.

"Hey," he breathes as he reaches the reception desk, "I'm looking for Jazz Douglas; they just wheeled her in."

The nurse types the name in her monitor before looking up at Terry. "She's in the OR. Are you family?"

"Uh, kind of; I'm her fiancé," he lies, knowing it'll be the only way to get updates on her condition.

"You can take a seat; we'll let you know if anything changes," the nurse says with a smile that's meant to reassure him.

But it doesn't. As he finds a seat in the corner, Terry can't help but wonder about the nurse's question. In the six months they've been working together, she has never mentioned a word about her family. Hell, she's hardly even said anything about close friends. He remembers the roommates he saved back when they first ran into Jazz, but she hasn't spoken about them since the incident. All he really knows is where she lives and her phone number.

Her phone! He suddenly realizes he could use it to call her parents if he needs to, and maybe find out where they live. Having to face how little Jazz has revealed about herself brings back the resentment the emergency had temporarily pushed aside. She shouldn't have left him in the dark like that; there was no reason to. Whatever she's hiding, she should realize by now that if there's anyone she should trust, it's him.

But the thought forces him to sigh and sink deeper into his chair, ashamed by how selfish he has become. One is never entitled to another's trust; the only way to get it is to earn it. The frustration of waiting though has gotten to him, and now with Jazz fighting for her life, he finds himself praying for her to pull through if only to apologize to her.

* * *

As the fifth hour closes in, a tall, middle-aged man dressed in blue scrubs and a white lab coat makes his way into the waiting room.

"Mr. McGinnis?" He asks, bringing Terry to lift his head. He shoots up to his feet as the doctor approaches.

"How is she?"

"Stable. She was lucky; the knife missed her heart by half an inch, but it did knick her aorta, which is why she bled so much. Her shoulder is what received the most damage. We managed to repair the torn tendons, but the recovery is going to be a slow one."

"Can I see her?"

"She's still out, but you'll find her in room 312." Terry moves to the doors but stops when the doctor continues to say, "I heard they caught the guy who did this just in time to stop him. Lord knows what else he would have done. It could have been worse."

"Must be a lucky day," Terry replies before disappearing behind the doors.

* * *

Room 312 is just like any other room in the hospital: clean, white, the sterile smell of alcohol wafting in the air, and the weak body lying in bed. Terry stands by the door staring at Jazz sleeping across the room. Although the room is shrouded in shadows, street lamps shine enough light through the windows for Terry to note her pale skin. Quietly approaching, he arrives by her side and looks down at her seemingly lifeless body. Dark circles border her eyes and lips as pale as her pasty cheeks only add to the effect. A large bandage covers the cut on her cheek, bringing Terry to notice it for the first time since he last saw her. The plain hospital gown doesn't cover part of her shoulder, revealing the blood stained bandages wrapped around it. He can't see the second thick layer of gauze wrapped around her ribs, but he knows the sight isn't prettier than her shoulder's.

He takes a seat on the available chair and rests his cheek on a propped fist as he continues to watch her. He's glad that she's okay, but he can't stop his fury from returning when he realizes that her interference was a mistake on her part. She should have waited, believed in his ability to get out of trouble, known there was nothing to rush into. All this could have been avoided if she had just trusted him. Even though he wouldn't regret leaving her now and returning in the morning to check on her, something stops him from setting foot outside the door.

He doesn't know anyone else who would stay with her. As far as he's concerned, he's the closest thing to family she has at the moment. Leaving now would only mean abandonment; although she can't say it, he knows she needs him there to stay with her, to lend her strength, to help her through. So he remains seated, eyes watching over her, quietly promising to never leave her.

* * *

Morning announces itself with skies dark with clouds and heavy droplets of rain assaulting the window. With the head of the bed elevated, Jazz had managed to comfortably sit up when the pattering had woken her a few hours ago. Although still sickly pale, she seems to be looking better than the night before. Her wavy black hair lies draped around her shoulders, her left arm hangs in a sling, and her other hand, set beside her, is covered by Terry's hand.

He hasn't left the chair he occupied the night before; with his head slightly tilted back, eyes closed, and chest rhythmically rising and falling, it's clear he had fallen asleep next to her. She hadn't woken him up or moved her hand away from his, even though she felt awkward and surprised to have found him there. However, she accepts and even appreciates his comforting presence, especially when events of the previous night flit through her mind.

She was too hasty with the decision that Terry needed her help. He had managed to break free of his binds and defeat Thorn single handedly; all she did was worry him unnecessarily. Before she continues beating herself up over the mistake, a gentle squeeze on her hand pulls her out of the self-defeating thoughts. She turns her head to find Terry staring back with tired, bloodshot eyes that fail to reveal his thoughts.

"Look, Terry, I know I messed up-" she starts.

"Big time," he interrupts drawing his hand away from hers; he's not planning on letting her off the hook that easily. "How are you feeling?"

"Crappy; how else should I feel?" She sighs.

"You'll feel worse if you don't tell me what's going on."

She frowns at him. "What do-?"

"Gray eyes. I thought the pink was spliced."

"Oh, that," she looks away, realizing her first secret has been uncovered. "I don't want people to know about this, okay?"

"What are you hiding?"

That, as they say, is the million-dollar question. Now is her best chance to set the record straight, to lay it all out, to tell her tale. She was looking for just the right moment to do that before ending up in here, and it seems that moment has found her; but even so, she hesitates, looking away with fear and shame.

Taking it as a sign that she's not yet ready to talk, Terry sighs as he rises; a reaction that surprises her. She expected another outburst, but what she gets is the opposite; he's calm, and not in the sense of giving up, but rather a more accepting calm.

"I need to take care of a few things," he starts, as though it's just another day. "And I'll have to call Bruce. Is there anything you want me to do for you?" She shakes her head as she studies his sincere face. "Then I'll be back later," he finishes before heading to the door.

"Terry?" Jazz suddenly calls out, stopping him from stepping out. He turns to face her.

"Did you really stay here all night?" She goes on to ask, closely watching for a reaction, but the silence that ensues suggests he has no intention of answering the question. Instead, he simply turns and steps out, never uttering a word.


	6. Chapter 6

"Her shoulder's messed up," Terry speaks into his phone as he descends the stairs, "but she'll be fine."

"Have you talked to Barbara yet?" Bruce asks.

"No; figured I'd do that later since I have a feeling she wants to lecture me about what happened."

"That depends on the mood you find her in."

"Right," Terry hesitantly replies as his eyes lift to the large screen. Pressing a button to turn it on, a frown quickly mars his brow when he discovers the open profile belongs to Jazz.

"Find out if Thorn figured out her identity," Bruce speaks, bringing Terry's thoughts back.

"Doubt it," he replies as he scrolls down the page. "He was out when I took her mask off, and press never released her name or picture." A loaded pause follows, which Terry clearly comprehends. "But I'll check anyway," he sighs to satisfy his mentor.

"Good; call me if you find out anything else."

"Got it," Terry replies, hanging up.

He sets the phone down as he reads the profile he discovered, his brow deepening after every line.

Name: Jasmine Douglas

Middle name: Marie

Age: 21

Hair: Black

Eyes: Gray

Height: 5'8"

Father: Andrew (Deceased)

Mother: Nicole Cleland

Siblings: none

Address: 532 Grand Central Ave, Gotham City

Crimes committed:

Grand larceny.

Assault and disturbing the peace.

Trespassing and vandalism.

Affiliation with unrecognized gang.

Shop lifting and pick pocketing.

Terry scrolls down to reveal more information on the subject:

Biography:

Orphaned at the age of four, parents claimed to no longer have been able to provide for her. Relocated to sixteen orphanages before the legal age of eighteen; misbehavior and assault on other children was the main reason for transfers. Diagnosed by child psychologist with 312.81 Conduct Disorder Childhood Onset, making placement difficult. Never adopted or fostered. Sentenced and served four months in Juvenile Hall at the age of fifteen for grand larceny and assault charges.

'_So she's an orphan?'_ Terry asks himself as he takes a seat.

With a touch of a button, he opens a new search box and types in the name Nicole Cleland and hits 'search', but the results that turn up don't seem to match the person he is looking for. He then tries Andrew Douglas, this time finding the right person on the top of the screen. He opens the profile to read:

Name: Andrew Douglas

Middle name: Christopher

Age: Deceased at 34

Cause of death: Automotive accident.

Terry leans back in his chair as he tries to understand why Jazz would hide this from him. He knows she must have deactivated her profile since he has never seen this one before, but why? He hasn't read anything on it that he hadn't done at one point in his life. Closing down the profiles, he figures the only way to get straight answers is from the source. At least now he knows what she has been hiding and enough to tide his curiosity over.

He stands to leave with Jazz's apartment being the next destination in mind, but something gently clamps down on the cuff of his pants, stopping him from climbing the steps. A low whimper forces him to turn around and find Ace's brown eyes staring up at him.

"I bet you're hungry," he says to the dog that lets him go. "Come on, let's get you some food, mutt."

* * *

When her apartment door swings open, Terry with Ace by his side make their way in. Once inside, he lets go of the leash allowing the dog to roam around freely, sniffing anything his nose comes into contact with.

"Jeez, slow down, Ace. She's not here," Terry comments as he closes the door and heads to the bathroom.

He opens the medicine cabinet in search of a pair of colored lenses, but frowns when he doesn't find them. With a little thought, he heads to the bedroom and checks the nightstand drawers; when a little box containing an unopened pair of lenses, Terry stuffs it into his bag before packing a few more necessities she may need.

"Ace?" He calls out when he doesn't find him in the living room. He heads to the kitchen and discovers that the dog has managed to climb onto a chair and help himself to a half eaten cinnamon roll on the table.

Terry rolls his eyes at the sight, picks up the leash, and is about to lead Ace away from the sugary treat; but that's when he notices a worn out and wrinkled photograph set on the table next to the plate Ace's face is buried in. It's of a tall redheaded man wearing a lopsided grin and embracing a woman who resembles Jazz so much he almost mistakes her to be his difficult and mysterious partner. The woman has the same long wavy hair, the red lips and the silvery eyes that seemed to sparkle. The only differences between the two are the freckles and the skin tone, where Jazz doesn't have any freckles and shares a paler complexion similar to the man in the photo. There's no doubt that they are her parents.

The couple stands smiling in front of a stone-faced Victorian mansion on an unfamiliar hillside. They look like any other young, newly wed couple: happy. He turns the photo over and finds a hand written message.

"_Lots of luck to my favorite newly weds: Andrew and Nicole. Here's to many long and happy years by each other's sides. Show the world what love really is._

_Always Your faithful friend, _

_Ethan_

_P.S. Don't forget, Red, you promised to name your girl Jazzy for me."_

"Ethan, huh?" Terry asks himself as he flips the picture over again. "I hope she's in the mood to talk." He looks over at Ace, scowling when he finds the plate cleaned and Ace staring back with innocent, almost puppy-like eyes. "You know that never works on me."

On that, Ace jumps off the chair and heads to the door without waiting for Terry. Before leaving the kitchen, Terry carefully slides the picture in a pocket and follows Ace out.


	7. Chapter 7

She isn't supposed to be up, but since when does she listen to anybody? Besides, standing by the window and watching the sun set never hurt anyone. Terry has been gone all day, and doctors have finally stopped bothering her with tests. This is her quiet time; the time she cherishes most and, since it's rare, always uses wisely.

Her usual spot to meditate is atop a building in the old district of Gotham where she would watch the moon set or the sunrise. Now she has to make due with the bland hospital room and a view that is partially obscured by a building. Even so, that doesn't stop a forgotten memory from sneaking in her thoughts.

It was a few years after that first night in her new home. She remembers sitting in the corner of a room filled with toys, but the only thing between her fingers was an old handkerchief with the initials "AD" embroidered into it. Twirling it between her fingers, she found comfort in the fabric's softness, helping her forget about the lingering pain the fresh bruises on her arms gave her.

The smell she thought clung to it reminded her of her father and how he used to cradle her when the boogie-man tried to get her from underneath the bed, or when she lay in his lap half awake on Christmas Eve waiting for Santa to come down the chimney, or when he made her pancakes after her mother would ignore her on Saturday mornings, preferring the company of coffee over her daughter.

Just as a smile made its way to her face, a shadow terrifyingly hovered over her. She looked up with gray eyes still not dry from tears to find that same woman from the first night glaring down at her.

"What are you looking at, you brat?" The woman's voice boomed as her hand rose and swung down, aiming for the girl's cheek.

The memory of the blow awakens Jazz with a jolt. Her wide eyes shut so tightly, tears manage to squeeze out of the corners of her eyes and roll down her cheeks.

'_How could she?'_ She keeps repeating the thought over and over.

It infuriates her, saddens her, frustrates her all at the same time. Opening her eyes, she lets her head hang low as the hand by her side balls up into a tight fist. Being left alone at such a young age, it's an unforgivable and unforgettable sin. The years may have added up and the incident growing farther and farther away from the present, but the pain is still the same. Today marks seventeen years since that first brick of her sturdy and secure wall crumbled, leading to a life of hardship and strife.

She remembers bits and pieces of the day that started it all; everyone wore black, there was a long, wooden box with flowers on it, which was taken to some kind of park. She knew it wasn't a normal park when she saw the stones jutting out of the ground; people weren't laughing or smiling, puppies weren't there to catch Frisbees, there wasn't even the usual swing set with a sand box on the side. It all became clear when they began lowering that long box into a hole in the ground. The box fit like two correct pieces of a puzzle coming together, except no one was pleased when they did. Then came the dirt. A buried box like that should never be touched again. It forever remains in the ground, untouched by anyone.

"Mommy?" The four-year-old asked, tugging at the end of the widow's skirt, "is daddy coming back?" She asked with a quivering voice. She looked up at her mother as the brown dirt continued to cover the coffin. "Tell them to stop, mommy," she sobbed. "Tell them to stop. I want daddy back. If they stop, we can get daddy back. Tell them I want daddy back!"

"He's never coming back, Jasmine. Nothing will ever bring him back," the woman replied as she watched the dirt fall. The thought of comforting her daughter never crossed her mind.

"Jazz?" Terry's voice startles her, bringing her out of the trance she was consumed in.

She turns to find him standing by the door and staring at her from across the room. She turns back to face the window hiding her wet cheeks as she dries them with the back of her hand. Meanwhile, Terry quietly shuts the door and approaches her, placing the bag on the bed as he passes by it. He stops a step behind her and waits for her to turn around. After taking a moment to compose herself, she finds the courage to look him in the eye again.

"I don't think you should be up and about yet," he starts.

"It's not like I'm leaping off buildings; I just wanted to watch the sun set."

"You have a pretty good view from the bed."

"Why are you here, McGinnis?" she asks, irritated by the way he's trying to order her around, never realizing it was out of concern.

With a sigh, he holds out the box containing the lenses. "I thought you may need these if you want to keep whatever you're hiding a secret."

"Oh; thanks," she mutters as she takes the box and walks over to a mirror above the sink.

She opens it and takes the delicate lenses out, placing one pink disc into each eye. Blinking into the mirror a few times she notices Terry's reflection off of her shoulder. He is staring at her with an expression she's never seen before. Is it sympathy? Is he pitying her right there in front of her?

Leaning against the edge of the sink, she stares back at his reflection. "How much did you read?"

But before he has the chance to answer, the door suddenly swings open, and Max comes walking in. "Holy crap," she gasps when eyes fall on Jazz still looking pale and tired. "Terry said it was bad, but-"

"Max," Terry quickly reprimands with a scowl.

"It's fine," Jazz sighs as she faces Max. "It's not as bad as I look."

"I'm glad you're okay; any idea when they'll be releasing you?" Max asks as she approaches the two.

"Tomorrow."

"That's early," she replies with surprised eyes. "I thought they'd-"

"Max," Terry scolds again, knowing Jazz has had enough doctors try to convince her to stay. "Do me a favor; the dog's in the car. Mind taking him to the park or something? There's one across the street," he asks, tossing his keys her way.

"Reduced to dog-sitting. Never thought I would miss you asking for help at three in the morning," she sarcastically quips, staring at the keys in her hand. "Call if you need anything, Jazz," Max says before heading out the door, leaving the two to quietly avoid each other's gaze. The silence is uncomfortable but Jazz prefers it over a topic that causes more pain than her wounds.

She starts for the bed, since her strength is almost completely drained, and sits on the edge with her back facing Terry. For a moment, nothing stirs. She doesn't hear Terry approach until he is right in front of her helping lift her legs onto the bed. Quietly accepting the help, she adjusts herself on the bed and, using her good arm, covers her legs with the beige comforter. But even then she never looks Terry in the eye. Her head rests against the raised pillow and she stares aimlessly at the ceiling. Meanwhile, Terry takes a seat on the chair, wondering if he should answer her earlier question. The longer the silence goes on, the more he begins to reconsider staying. After five quiet minutes, he decides to leave. But just as he stands, Jazz's voice stops him.

"You didn't answer my question." Her gaze shifts from the ceiling to her restless fingers.

"You should get some rest. We'll just talk about this some other-"

"Just tell me." Her tone is cold but not angry.

With a sigh, he places a hand on the back of his neck. "All of it. Who's Ethan?"

Jazz meets his gaze for a moment before once again staring at her fingers. "My father's closest friend. He's also dead."

"Oh."

"What you read isn't all true." Taking advantage of the rare show of honesty from Jazz, Terry returns to his seat and waits for her to continue. "Where's the picture?" She asks, presuming he swiped it from her apartment. Terry fishes it out of his pocket and holds it out for her to take; but she shakes her head instead. "Look at it. What do you see?"

Raising a brow, he does as told. "Your parents in front of a house."

"More like a mansion. I lived there for four years, since I was born until my dad died. The profile is a lie because, with the life we had, providing for me wasn't an issue."

"If money wasn't the problem, then why did your parents give you up?"

"I was never given up." Terry's brow knits with confusion. "You want the real story, McGinnis?" She lets out an exhausted sigh before continuing. "I was abandoned."


	8. Chapter 8

"Hurry up, Jasmine. You want to get to the park before sundown, don't you?" Nicole hurriedly asked. She stood in the foyer holding her daughter's pink backpack, waiting for her to come down the stairs. However, Jasmine's response was yelled from her room on the second floor.

"I don't want to go! I want daddy!"

"Honey, it's been a month. You have to get over it. Come on, grab your things; we have to go. I'll even buy you some ice cream."

"I hate ice cream! Daddy knows that!"

"Damn it," Nicole irritably cursed before responding. "Well, I'll get you a new toy."

"I don't want a new toy! I want daddy!"

Before Nicole could say anything else, the doorbell chimed, startling her. She turned and opened the door revealing a man of around thirty-five with curly brown hair and a beard. "Nick, you're early," Nicole greets with surprise. "I didn't expect you till another hour."

"Couldn't wait to see you, babe," he replied with a sly grin. He enters the house as he pulls his sunglasses up, resting them on his head.

"I was about to drop her off before you got here," she whispered.

"So? We'll do it together; that way, you won't chicken out the last minute," he replied.

"We won't be doing anything if she stays in her room."

Rolling his eyes, Nick leaned against the staircase's banister and called out, "hey squirt! Come on, let's go!"

"Go away, ugly potty-head!" Jasmine yells in reply, making him raise a brow at Nicole.

"Now Jasmine, is that how daddy told you to greet your guests?" He asked.

They heard the door open then slam shut. A few moments later they spot Jasmine standing at the top of the steps, her gray eyes full of fury and glaring down at the two. Her arms were crossed over her dark green dress, where in one hand she held a photo of her parents together and in the other the white handkerchief she stole from her father's drawer.

"Where is Uncle Ethan? I want to go with Uncle Ethan," she demanded without easing her frown.

"Ethan?" Nick asked looking over at Nicole.

Nicole met Jasmine's cold stare before answering, "I told you, Ethan isn't coming."

"I want to talk to Uncle Ethan."

"Jasmine, don't make me mad again. Uncle Ethan isn't coming; he can't come."

"He told me I can call him. I want to talk to him, now," Jasmine persisted.

"You want to talk to him? Fine. Come down here and call him."

Jasmine quickly made her way down the steps, stopping two steps above the landing so she can stick a hand through the railing and grab the cordless receiver from the table by the stairs. She knew Ethan's number was set on speed dial number four and her father taught her how to enter it. She quickly pressed the right buttons and waited for a voice to answer.

After the fourth ring, a woman's voice spoke. "Hello?"

"Hi Miss Clair, it's Jasmine." Although Clair was just a maid in Ethan's household, Jasmine was always polite, just like her father taught her to be.

"Oh, hello sweetie. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. Is Uncle Ethan there? I want to talk to him."

"Mr. Ethan? Didn't anyone tell you, honey?"

"What?"

"Oh dear," she quietly whispered to herself. "Jazzy, is your mother there?"

"Yes."

"May I speak with her?"

"But I want to talk to Uncle Ethan."

"I know, honey. But can I speak with your mother first?"

"Mommy, Miss Clair wants to speak with you." Jasmine stated, holding the phone out. Nicole approached and took the phone from her hand.

"Yes, Clair?... No I haven't… Well then you tell her instead," she replied handing the phone back to the anxious girl seated on the stairs. "Hurry it up, Jasmine. We have to go in ten minutes." Jasmine took the phone and held it up to her ear.

"Jazzy? Listen to me. I know you're still sad because of daddy, but you have to know good things and bad things happen. The good thing is you still have mommy."

"I don't want mommy."

"Jasmine," she sighed, "I know this is hard but you have to accept the fact that we all lose things we love. I know you love your father and you love Mr. Ethan."

"I want to talk to Uncle Ethan."

"You can't, sweetie," she replied, her broken heart piercing through the phone.

"Why?"

"He isn't here."

"When will he come back?" No reply was given. "Miss Clair?"

"He won't be back," she quietly replied. "Jasmine, Mr. Ethan is with your father right now. Do you understand?"

Jasmine froze for a moment. "No, he's not. Daddy is in Heaven. Uncle Ethan can't be with him. Daddy said Uncle Ethan won't ever leave me."

"I'm so sorry, sweetie."

"But, Uncle Ethan said…" Jasmine sobbed before breaking out into tears. She dropped the phone and curled into a ball on the steps as she continued to cry.

Nicole didn't move an inch when she saw her daughter cry hysterically. Instead, she stared at her tiny trembling body as though nothing was wrong. That was when Nick decided to approach Jasmine.

"Jazzy," he said kneeling down beside her.

Jasmine's head quickly shot up and glared at the man's face with eyes full of tears. "Nobody says Jazzy! Only daddy and Uncle Ethan says Jazzy!" She screamed.

She quickly rose to her feet and began running up the stairs once more; but Nick caught her by the hand, stopping her from moving any further.

"Oh, no you don't," he started, losing patience. "We're going for a little car ride instead."

"No! Let go!" She yelled back as she tried to get out of his grasp.

"Go start the car," Nick ordered as he pulled Jasmine down the steps.

"No!" Jasmine objected as she tried to free her hand from his grip.

"Jasmine," her mother warned, "If you don't stop pulling, I won't take you to see Clair." Jasmine stopped squirming to look into her mother's eyes.

"Miss Clair?"

"Yes. That's where we're going. Right, Nick?" She asked, looking up at her boyfriend.

"Uh right," he replied, letting go of Jasmine when she calmed down. "We're going over to see Clair," he echoed. Jasmine switched her gaze from her mother to Nick and back before allowing herself to be led out by her mother to the car. Nicole strapped her into the booster seat and placed the pink bag she was carrying on Jasmine's lap. She then took her seat on the passenger side beside Nick before the car hovered and sped off down the drive way.

Jasmine knew the road to Ethan's house by heart, so when the car took an unusual turn on a corner, she realized they were going the wrong way. "Wrong way, cootie-man," she stated after the car turned the curb. But no one responded to her comment. "I said-"

"We heard you, Jasmine," Nicole scolded.

"So go back that way," she replied pointing in the other direction. But once again she was ignored. "Mommy, go back that way."

"We're taking a short cut, ok?" She impatiently replied. "Now go to sleep."

"I don't want-"

"I said go to sleep."

"Listen to your mother, Jasmine," Nick spoke up, looking at Jasmine through his rear-view mirror.

Although she hated to follow Nick's orders, she obediently shut her eyes and laid her head back, pretending to be asleep. Twenty silent minutes passed before the car came to a stop in front of an alley and Nicole unbuckled her seatbelt to get out of the car. After opening the door by Jasmine's side, she undid her seatbelt and carried her out of the car. Placing her down on the sidewalk, she took her hand and led her to the side of a building.

She knelt down to her level so she could place the bag Jasmine was carrying onto her shoulders. "Now Jasmine, I want you to stay here and wait for Clair to come by, ok?"

"Why?"

"Because you want to see Clair."

"But this isn't Uncle Ethan's house."

"Yes, I know," she sighed, "That's why you have to wait here until Clair comes to get you."

"But-"

"Stop it, Jasmine. For once do as you're told without asking so many questions," she shot back as she rose.

"Mommy, where are you going?"

"I'm going far away for a while."

"When will you be back?"

"When I want to. Now enough questions. Behave yourself until Clair comes by." She quickly turned and got into the waiting car.

Nicole shoots a last glance, too quick to even be considered one, before the car rose and sped off down the road, disappearing within seconds. Jasmine sat down hugging her knees close to her chest and sobbed hoping Clair would come soon. She tried comforting herself with thoughts of her father playing with her in the park and memories of Christmas time at Ethan's house.

* * *

Clair never came. She would have if she knew what happened. But she didn't, and now Jasmine sat on the grimy sidewalk in false hope waiting for her friend to show up. It was six hours later when an elderly woman found her sleeping against the side of the building.

"Dear child, wake up," she said, gently shaking her. Jasmine opened her eyes and stared at the woman. Rubbing her eyes with both hands, she quickly realized it wasn't Clair. "Why are you out here all alone at night?"

"Miss Clair is supposed to come."

"Miss Clair?" Jasmine nodded in response staring back at the old woman with wide, expectant eyes. "Who is that?"

"My friend. She works for Uncle Ethan at his house. But Uncle Ethan is gone."

"Where are your parents?"

"Gone."

"Both of them?" Jasmine looks down at her toes and nods in reply. "Oh dear. Do you have your friend's phone number?"

"Uh-huh. I press four on the phone then I press the orange button and I wait for someone to answer."

"Orange button… that's speed dial, sweetie. Do you have the number?" Jasmine shook her head. "Well do you have the address?" Again she shook her head. "Do you know where you live?"

"On a hill with trees."

"Honey, that doesn't help me very much. What is your last name?"

"Douglas."

"Ok. Take my hand."

"But I'm waiting for Clair, and daddy always told me to never go with strangers."

"But I'm only trying to help you."

"That is what daddy said. I always do what daddy says."

"I see you're a very good girl, but it isn't safe out here. Besides, I won't hurt you. I want to help you go home." Jasmine stared up at the woman without moving a muscle. "Honey, I can't leave you out here by yourself. It's getting dark and you know how dangerous Gotham is at night. Can you trust me just this once?"

Jasmine continued to stare at her for a few moments before standing. "You'll take me to see Miss Clair?"

"If I can find her, then yes. Take my hand," she said holding it out. Jasmine half-heartedly wraps her tiny fingers around it and allowed the elderly woman to lead her to a telephone booth close by. The woman then touched the computer screen beside the phone to activate the online phone book. "Do you know how to spell Douglas?"

"D-O-G-U-N-A-C, I think," Jasmine replies.

"Um, let's just check the book." When the woman chose to search under all the names that started with 'D', she found several Douglases, each one spelled differently. "What is your father's name?"

"Andrew."

After scanning the screen, she let out a sigh of defeat and closed it. "I'm sorry, sweetie, but his name isn't in there. Do you have other relatives, like a grandmother, aunt or uncle?"

"No. I don't know grandma or grandpa; they are in heaven with Daddy."

"Heaven?" The old woman muttered, realizing for the first time Jasmine's parents might be dead. "So you're an orphan?"

"What does 'orphan' mean?"

"It means, how can I put this; it means you don't have relatives," she replied as gently as she could. Jasmine looked down at her toes and began tearing up once more. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. Do you know any friends who can help?"

"Miss Clair and Uncle Ethan are my friends. But Uncle Ethan is with daddy, too."

"Do you know Clair's last name or any other information?" Jasmine shook her head again as she began twisting her toes on the ground. "I don't know what else to do in that case, sweetheart. I can take you to an orphanage for the night and we can look for your friend tomorrow. How does that sound?"

"What about Clair?"

"She's not coming tonight, dear. Now take my hand. I know an orphanage just up the street." Jasmine once again grabbed the trustworthy hand and followed the old woman to the orphanage.


	9. Chapter 9

A drop of water landed on the top of her head, making her look up to discover gray clouds beginning to congregate and form what she knew to be rain. She was glad they finally arrived at the orphanage before the downpour began, so now all they had to do was wait for the caretaker to open the door. The older woman looked down at Jasmine, giving her a reassuring smile that was supposed to comfort her; but all Jasmine wanted to do was go home, curl up next to Clair and cry over the loss of both Ethan and her father.

The door swung open revealing a woman in her mid-forties smiling back at them. "Can I help you?"

"Yes; this little girl is lost and has no where to sleep for the night."

"Please come in before you get wet."

"Thank you," the woman replied, leading Jasmine into the entryway.

It was the large room that will feature in so many future nightmares. Still holding on to the woman's hand, Jasmine took a look around, quietly thinking the bare walls and the old Persian rug didn't compare to her home's lavish foyer. Her gaze turned to the old woman, hoping she wouldn't leave her alone in this empty home.

"As I was saying, her name is Jasmine Douglas and we can't seem to locate her address. I don't think she has any living relatives."

The caretaker stepped over to Jasmine, kneeling beside her. "Oh, you poor thing. Jasmine? That's your name?" Jasmine nodded once in reply as she tried to hide behind the older woman's legs. "What's your middle name, sweetheart?"

"Marie," she quietly answered.

"Jasmine Marie Douglas. Excellent," the woman said to herself as she rose to her feet. "We have this new software that could find information using the first and last name. The middle name usually narrows it down for us."

"Yes, but I couldn't find her father listed in the phonebook."

"Ours searches a different database, so we might have better luck. I'll try tomorrow morning. Right now I'm sure young Jasmine is afraid and hungry. Am I right?" She asked, looking down at Jasmine. She shyly nodded once in reply before dropping her head to hide the new tears rolling down her chubby cheeks.

"I suppose there isn't anything else I could do except trust she is in good hands," the older woman stated, letting go of Jasmine's hand and heading to the door.

"You did the right thing by bringing her here. We'll take good care of her and try our hardest to place her."

A wrinkled smile spreads on the old woman's face. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight," the caretaker replied, closing the door after the old lady left.

She then turned to face Jasmine, her smile suddenly disappeared before her boney hand drew back and swung down connecting with Jasmine's cheek. That first blow was so surprising that Jasmine froze in confusion for a moment.

"If I see you crying again, you'll get more than a slap, understood?" The caretaker menacingly hissed. Grabbing her tiny arm, she forcefully pulled Jasmine up the stairs, shoving her in the room she was supposed to stay in for the next fourteen years.

"Do you know what its like to lose so much in just a matter of hours, McGinnis?" She asks looking over to stare at Terry, disbelief written all over his face. "Do you have any idea how painful it is? The only things I had left were that picture and dad's handkerchief. She never tried to reach Clair after that, so I ended up an orphan among the rest; but the difference between them and me: I was the only one with bruises." She looks away as she continues with her story. "The caretaker only picked on me, and I never understood why. I always did what she asked and I always stayed out of anyone's way so I wouldn't get in trouble. Two years was how long I had to suffer until I finally broke loose."

Now around six years old, Jasmine sat in the corner of a room filled with toys. Her long, black hair was pulled up into a single ponytail and all she wore was an oversized sweater and donated pants she was beginning to outgrow. The only thing between her hands was that same faded white handkerchief that she twirled between her fingers with dedication. Memories of how her father used to cradle her, play with her, read stories to her, and kiss her goodnight brought a small smile to her face; but that's when the intimidating shadow loomed over her, terrifying her again.

"Get up and clean that mess on the table," the hoarse voice ordered.

Jasmine stood without looking up at the woman and was tucking the handkerchief in her pocket before the caretaker snatched it from her hand. Surprised, Jasmine's still damp eyes shot up to the woman's scowling face.

"And stop playing with this dirty rag," the woman demanded as she tore the fabric in half, tossing it to the floor.

That's when something snapped in young Jasmine. Her red rimmed, gray eyes that used to be filled with lifelessness suddenly fired up with a rage when they witnessed the destruction of her most beloved possession. Her terrified expression turned into a furious one as she clenched her fists into tight balls. Every kind of discipline she was taught was forgotten at that moment; she pulled her leg back and kicked the woman directly in the shin as hard as she could. The force of the blow was both surprising and painful enough to bring the caretaker down to her knees as she rubbed her leg. But before she could react, Jasmine slapped her across the face so hard that it left a large, red mark on one sunken cheek.

With such fury burning from Jazz's eyes, it was difficult to believe this little thing was a child at all. Jazz had her first taste of freedom, but it came at a price: her beloved handkerchief. She stood there feeling no guilt or shame, staring into the eyes of her offender.

"After that, I was locked in the attic for three days with no food and little water. She thought that she would break me back into fearing her again. It did the opposite. I gave her more trouble after my confinement was over. A week later and I was finally relocated; but no matter how nice other caretakers were, I never lost my edge. If anything, it got worse. If kids pushed me, I pushed back. If they insulted me, I turned their lives into a living hell. Attitude problem is what they called it," she recalls.

"The worst part was having couples come with hopes of adoption," she continues, her eyes turning cold. "They always judged us like pieces of meat at a butcher's shop, making us believe that they were our only salvation. When I was ten, my attitude got bad enough for the caretakers to try and hide me when prospective parents did come. I guess they cared enough not to unload me on an unsuspecting couple, or they probably didn't want to get sued since I was a liability. That's why I kept jumping from orphanage to orphanage across the country, until I eventually landed myself in Juvi. I'm sure you know what that's like.

"I was fifteen at the time and I spent four months there. To tell you the truth, it wasn't that much different from what I was used to. It only looked like what I imagined those homes to be. After my sentence, they sent me back to yet another home. Two years and three orphanages later and I turned eighteen.

"Thing was, no matter how much I moved around, I always knew Gotham was home. It's where I was born, where I found freedom, where I made more friends than enemies. So once I was out of the system, it was natural for me to just move back here. But I knew the only way I could get into Gotham State was to hide my record. An old friend owed me a favor, and overnight I became a model citizen; two jobs, a full-time schedule, and student loans racking up even made me believe I was finally 'normal', something I always wanted."

"The eye thing was your way of accepting it," Terry says, and she nods once in response. "So why keep this from me?"

She looks away with embarrassment. "I didn't want you to think differently of me."

"Seriously?" He inadvertently blurts out, bringing Jazz's surprised eyes to his. "How? I mean, have you seen my record? Wasn't covered in glitter and smiley faces, so what makes you think I'd judge you?"

"Cause it's what people do," she replies, remembering the endless potential parents she could have had.

"And I'm like them how?" Terry asks with a raised brow, an expression that shows Jazz just how ludicrous her assumption is.

"I wanted to tell you sooner," she starts apologizing, but Terry interrupts her, having no desire to hear what he already knows. Trust, as he knows, is a fickle concept.

"Forget it," he shakes his head. "But I still have one question. Why didn't you just permanently splice your eyes?"

"For the same reason Bruce never tore down the theater or why you didn't move away from Gotham. I don't want to forget what happened."

"So what now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going to keep wearing those lenses?" She falls silent. "Why?"

"I don't want people to know what happened."

"You can't keep reminding yourself what happened, then walk around pretending like it didn't. I'd rather see you fight for who you are than allow yourself to be beaten by people's judgment. Picking the easy way out is tempting, but it only makes you weak."

She doesn't overlook the fact that his amazing insight comes from experience; in fact, she respects him more because of it. His point is a valid one: either she confronts her past or denies it completely. She needs to make the decision that could either cement her values and morals as they are, or mold them into something drastically and permanently different; it could earn her Terry's unconditional trust, or keep her safe from feeling the hurt again.

"Take your time figuring it out," Terry suddenly breaks the silence. He rises, signaling he's ready to leave. "I'll be back tomorrow to pick you up."

She nods in agreement and rests her head back on the pillow, her eyes staring at the porous ceiling tiles to avoid watching Terry walk out; but she can't stop her mind from being haunted with the heavy ultimatum he set on her shoulders.

To confront or to forget…


	10. Chapter 10

Just as promised, Terry returns the next day to pick Jazz up. Despite the doctor advising her to stay an extra day in the hospital, she refuses, having grown sick of the white walls confining her. After much objection, he finally agrees to release her, trusting Terry with her well being. The ride home though, is a quiet one. Jazz rests her head against the window, watching the buildings speed past as they approach their destination.

"Bruce'll be back tomorrow," Terry informs, trying to break the silence. She doesn't reply; she hardly even moves. "I already told him what happened." Again, no response, so Terry sighs and concentrates on driving.

Ten minutes later, the car draws up in front of her apartment building. He offers to help her out of the car, but being the stubborn woman that she is, she refuses it and walks up the steps to the front door on her own. The two wait in silence for the elevator to arrive and sound its _ding_ as its doors slide open. Stepping in, she hits the button to her floor and leans against the banister while Terry stands beside her, the corner of his eyes carefully watching the tired woman.

"Jazz? Are you ok?" H asks when she winces in pain. Although she nods in reply, he isn't reassured.

He can see the discomfort in her downcast eyes not to mention the trouble she has just staying upright even with the banister supporting her. The _ding_ sounds again as the doors slide open when the elevator reaches the right floor. But before Jazz can step out, Terry places a hand on her back and wraps an arm around the back of her knees lifting her into his arms.

She doesn't object to his moves. In fact, she accepts it by sluggishly throwing her good arm around his back and resting her head on his shoulder. Making sure not to jostle her around, he heads down the hallway towards her apartment. Too tired to even keep her eyes open, Jazz involuntarily begins dozing off, making Terry look down at her when she goes limp.

He managed to unlock the door without disturbing her and drops a bag of supplies by the frame as he enters the apartment. He finds his way to her bedroom and gently lays her down on her bed. Taking special attention not to wake her, he removes her shoes and the sling around her neck before laying a thick comforter over her sleeping frame.

Before leaving, he finds a notepad and pen on her nightstand and decides to leave her a note. As quietly as he had entered the room, he exits leaving a crack in the door. Making his way to the couch, he flops down letting a sigh of exhaustion escape his lips. He decides to stick around for a while just in case she wakes up and might need anything. It's a quiet afternoon with no classes, no alarms sounding from the cave and Bruce hasn't called him yet. Nothing to do but think back to the painful topic Jazz had recounted yesterday.

She's been through a lot and she's been hiding it all for so long. But he's relieved she finally decided to open up, even though it was more forced than voluntary. It explains a lot about her, though; her rough exterior, tough attitude, and avoidance when anyone gets too close. Although her temper is the worst part, his isn't any better. But his edge doesn't come from years of fear, neglect, loss and abandonment.

Guilt washes over him for a moment when he thinks of his own family. At least he still has a mother and brother. She doesn't have anyone to turn to and doesn't even know where home used to be. Hell, she was abandoned on the side of Gotham's streets with nothing but a picture and a handkerchief.

Her story seems so surreal; she was the daughter of a successful, rich Gotham citizen living in a manor somewhere in the richer parts of the city before a sudden death that left her fatherless, and to make it worse, she was deserted by her own greedy mother to die.

'_Douglas,' _Terry thinks to himself, _'that name doesn't sound familiar.'_

He knows the names of most of the aristocrats of Gotham, but hers doesn't ring a bell. Spotting her laptop on the kitchen table, he picks up the bag he dropped earlier as he heads towards the computer. He flips the lid, turns it on, and connects to the Batcomputer.

Once he types in the correct codes, a red bat flashes before receding into the upper right corner of the screen. Hacking into Interpol, he types the name Douglas into a search box. A long list of names pops up and he recognizes the first two: Jasmine Marie Douglas and Andrew Christopher Douglas. He was about to click on her father's name when he hears shuffling coming from the bedroom.

Getting up, he makes his way back to her room and widens the crack in the door as he quietly slips in. He finds the bed empty and the bathroom door closed, giving him a clue as to where she went. Only a second later does the door open, revealing a very worn out Jazz staring back with dark eyes. She doesn't say anything to Terry before she shuffles back to bed, sitting on its edge with a sigh. He quietly approaches her, waiting to see if she'll give him a hint as to what to do next. As she tries to lie down, he helps lift her legs when he notices her wince with pain.

Being this helpless, this dependent, not even able to get herself in bed infuriates Jazz. She's always been able to take care of herself, feed herself when everyone else went hungry, bandage cuts and scrapes without shedding a tear, or find a way to be treated fairly when she gets the short end of the stick. However, now that she's lying on her back, in too much pain to roll on her side, she can't help but displace her anger on the underserving Terry.

"Get out," she growls, ungratefully looking away.

Terry understands her vulnerability considering he was in the same position almost seven months ago, so he turns and leaves without protest, closing the door behind him. Feeling like he's stayed long enough and figuring she'll probably sleep through the rest of the day, he decides to head back to the cave and get some work done. His attention switches from concerned friend to Batman, and all he cares about is finding the loon who managed to escape Arkham last week before anything major happens.


	11. Chapter 11

Jazz wakes up the next day at around noon feeling as though a bus just ran over her. With dark eyes, she looks over at her nightstand and notices the note with her name on it. Picking it up, she reads the sloppy handwriting:

'_Remember to change your bandages when you wake up. Call if you need any help._

_T'_

Crumpling the note, she tosses the paper ball aside annoyed by how overly concerned Terry is being, making her feel like that fragile child she once was. She grumbles an unwarranted cure as she carefully gets up. Shuffling to the bathroom, she holds her injured arm close to her chest as though a sling supports it. Heavily leaning against the sink, she stares at her pale reflection in the mirror.

She tiredly sighs when she realizes just how crappy she looks. Suddenly feeling nauseous, she quickly spins to kneel in front of the toilet as she heaves what little contents her stomach contains. Once done, she flushes the mess away and closes the lid of the toilet as she slowly sits on it. Covering her face with both hands, she rests her elbows on her knees and takes deep breaths trying to lessen the unbearable pain from her two wounds. Since the sink is close, she uses it to steady herself as she stands in front of the mirror again. She passes her hand under the spout to activate the water, taps a button, and splashes the cool liquid over her face before steadying herself once again.

Grabbing a towel, she dries her hands and face before sluggishly walking out of the bathroom and back into her bedroom. Heading towards the dresser, she picks out comfortable gray sweatpants and a white shirt to change into. Once dressed, she searches for her sling and spots it on the bathroom doorknob. Throwing it around her neck and slipping her arm into it, she makes her way to the kitchen.

She fetches a cup and fills it with water from the tap. Thirstily gulping it down, she refills it and takes a few more sips before resting it atop the counter. An open box of granola bars beside the fridge forces her to grab one and open it. She knows she has to eat something before taking the many pills her doctor prescribed. Using her mouth to hold the nutritious bar, she fishes for the pill bottles packed in the bag sitting on the table. Once she finds them, she distastefully eyes the three orange medication bottles.

"Better get this over with," she tries motivating herself.

Finishing the bar and hoping it will stay in her stomach, she settles down at the table and pops the caps off of the bottles. She shakes out the appropriate doses and swallows each one with a generous gulp of water.

She almost chokes on the last pill before it passes down her throat. Taking a few more sips of water to wash out the lingering bitter taste, she sets the cup down and twists her face with disgust. Hating the last dose so much, she chucks the pill bottle out the open kitchen door. However, instead of hearing it hit the hard floor, it lands with a soft thud.

Her brow rises in suspicion as she stands and makes her way to the door. She discovers why the bottle didn't land like she expected it to when she comes face to face with Bruce standing in the hallway.

"Bruce?" He stares down at the orange bottle by his feet before returning his gaze to the young woman. "You try swallowing one of those bastards." She says as she picks up the bottle.

Ignoring her comment, he quietly makes his way to a chair in the living room and takes a seat. His silence is beginning to scare her. She places the bottle on a nearby table and makes her way to the couch.

"I'm guessing you've heard the story from Terry," she timidly starts as she takes a seat adjacent to him. He stares at her, expertly keeping his face expressionless. "He was in trouble; I couldn't just sit back and do nothing." Silence. "Ok, so I shouldn't have been so hasty, but I had to go with my gut, and my gut said-"

"To almost get yourself killed?"

"How was I supposed to know that was going to happen?"

"You know the suit would have protected Terry if Thorn tried anything."

She looks away, ashamed at her own stupidity. "Fine, I've learned my lesson," she mutters, hoping the reprimand is over.

"Have you really?" He asks raising a brow. "You two haven't been in sync for a while; I have a feeling that's why you moved in so quickly."

"That has nothing to do with it," she defensively replies, thinking back to the last time she saw Terry before the accident.

"I think you know that's a lie."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"And I don't care about hearing it. I'm only pointing it out so you can fix it," Bruce replies, surprising her. "He said he knows all about you." She nods once. "Good," he adds as he rises. "Then I trust you'll take care of this."

"What, that's it?"

"Given the circumstances, what you did was unnecessary but understandable. You've been punished enough for it. By the way," he continues as he walks to the door. "Terry told me you have a decision to make." He opens the door as he turns back to face her. "I hope that isn't it," he finishes, nodding at her pink eyes before walking out.

Surprised by the outcome of the visit, Jazz takes a minute to let it mull over. The conversation she had with Terry echoes in her head.

'_Confront, or forget?' _

She moves to the bathroom as the question repeats itself like a broken record. Standing in front of the mirror, she focuses on the pink eyes. With a finger, she removes one of the lenses to reveal one gray eye. Looking back into the mirror, she studies each eye color separately. If she decides to confront, her eyes will once again turn gray. But if she decides to forget, the lenses will have to be substituted for splicing.

'_Face the truth, or deny its existence?'_

* * *

A few hours later, Terry finds himself knocking on her door and waiting for her to answer. He leans on the doorframe before he knocks once more, but she doesn't open it. He tries turning the doorknob and finds it unlocked. He pushes the door open and spots Jazz seated on her couch, legs crossed with rolls of gauze and balls of cotton surrounding her. She is in her sports bra, her shirt laid beside her as she tries to fasten a new sheet of gauze onto her shoulder; however, with the injury being in an awkward place, it's clear she is having trouble dressing it in the new bandage.

"Need some help?" Terry offers, still leaning against the doorframe as he watches her work.

"I got it," she irritably replies without looking up at him.

But Terry ignores her rejection and makes his way towards her. Pulling the coffee table closer, he uses it as a temporary seat and takes over the job of wrapping gauze. She doesn't object, but she doesn't make eye contact either. After securely tying the roll onto her shoulder, he takes her arms and rests them on his shoulders so he could remove the old bandages around her ribs with more ease.

Once the bandage is off, he slowly peels away the sheet stuck to the two-inch stab wound just below her rib. Soaking a cotton ball in some antiseptic, he gently dabs it onto the cut, causing her to slightly wince from the sting.

"Sorry," he apologizes before continuing to clean the stitches. "I didn't hear from you today," Terry starts, his eyes focusing on the cut.

"I was busy."

"With what?" He tosses the used cotton ball in the nearby trashcan before ripping open a new packet of gauze sheets.

"Thinking."

He knows what she means by her answer. "And?" Her response lies in the eyes that finally connect with his, their color as gray as rain clouds. He lets a smile cross his lips as he looks back down at the sheet of gauze between his hands. "I happen to like gray better; it suits you more. Hold this," he instructs when he places the sheet over the stitches.

She places a hand over it as Terry gently begins to wrap the new roll of bandages around her chest making sure not to over tighten.

"Terry?"

"Hm?"

Jazz hesitates before shyly asking, "Do you hate me?"

Finding the question odd, he looks up to meet her large, gray eyes. "Hate you? Why would you ask that?"

"I kept a lot from you, and we haven't been getting along recently."

"No," Terry replies looking back at her wound. "I don't hate you, but I don't like you either."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No."

"You're an ass," Jazz scowls at him, making him look up.

"And you're inconsiderate. If you stop keeping everything buried inside you, we might actually get along." She's so taken aback by his reply, she isn't sure how to respond. He lowers his gaze to the wound again. "Is that too tight?" He asks as he finishes taping the ends off.

Looking away, she shakes her head as she lifts her arms from Terry's shoulders. "Look," Terry starts, cleaning up around him. "I'm not trying to upset you; things were just frustrating, and I guess I took it out on you."

"I'm sorry; I didn't think my story mattered," Jazz replies, regaining eye contact.

"And that's another thing that bothers me; I don't understand why you would think that. Whether you like it or not, our lives are always going to get tangled up. The reason I want you to share is so I can understand how you work, how you think; so when we're out in the field, I can predict your next move or know whether you need me or not."

"I didn't realize," Jazz mutters, looking away. "I've been on my own for so long, I just… I'm sorry."

"You already said that," Terry sighs. "It's not my place to lecture you, and I know you're beating yourself up over this, so I'm willing to put it behind me if you're willing to open up more."

Jazz studies his determined face, easily sensing just how important his request is. Although the frown he's wearing adds to the stern look, the kindness behind his blue eyes give away the hint as to why he's so forgiving.

"You might not like a lot of the things I've done," she tests.

"You're not going to change my mind, Douglas."

So she agrees to his terms with a nod. Glad he's finally getting somewhere with her, he eases the frown as he gets up, pushing the table back to the right spot.

"If you need anything, do me a favor, swallow your pride and call."

"Don't count on it," she replies, slowly pulling her shirt back on and sending his eyes into a roll before he heads to the door. "For what it's worth," Jazz calls after him, making him stop and turn, "I never really hated you." He gives her an acknowledging nod and walks out.


	12. Chapter 12

He looks down at his wristwatch and reads 7:35 PM, then returns his gaze to the monitor. Terry finally had a quiet moment to look into Jazz's family, but after a half hour of searching and prodding, all he ends up with are names. He tried tracing a lineage to find out how Andrew got his money, thinking maybe he inherited it from a family member from Bruce's days. When that theory fizzles, he moves on to the next one. Andrew wasn't a writer, a singer, an actor, didn't manage banks, wasn't in government, and before he reaches his last resort of being a lottery winner, he decides to look in the business district. He strikes gold there when a regular Internet search engine reveals Andrew was CEO of a chemical distributing corporation known as World Chemistry.

"Computer, World Chemistry Corporation," he commands.

The console's screen is replaced with a text box reading "searching" before it beeps once with an answer. It displays a recent article about the company's history:

"_World Chemistry was established in early 2021 [twenty-seven years ago]. The founders of the company were Andrew Douglas and Ethan Garvin. The two men graduated from Gotham State University two years prior to establishing the company. With Andrew majoring in business and his partner in chemical engineering, the two decided to team up and create a chemical manufacturing company that not only manufactures their own substances but also provides world wide shipping. _

_During the first two years, the company was not much of a success and was close to filing for bankruptcy before Wayne-Powers offered them a partnership contract. The two corporations benefited from one another, with Wayne-Powers being able to ship their substances with greater ease and World Chemistry able to profit and benefit from the business Wayne-Powers attracted._

_It remained successful for eight consecutive years until the death of Andrew soon followed by Ethan a month later. Andrew left behind a wife and a daughter of four. Vice President Nicolas Boris took over the company soon after the deaths, but the success of the company soon down spiraled over the course of five years before finally filing for bankruptcy in 2034 and shutting down in early 2035."_

'_Wait, Nicolas Boris? Short for Nick I presume.'_ Terry quietly thinks to himself.

Just then a batarang cuts through the air right over Terry's head startling him. He turns his gaze to the source and finds Bruce standing at one end of the cave staring back at him with a raised brow. He then raises a hand and catches the returning batarang with ease.

Terry scowls at the old man. "Old age make you forget my name?"

Bruce ignores his comment. "What are you working on?"

He turns his attention back to the monitor. "Do you remember the names Andrew Douglas and Ethan Garvin?"

"They sound familiar, why?"

"Yeah, well they should. They owned the company World Chemistry. You had a partnership with them before you retired."

"Andrew as in Jazz's father? What are you up to?" He asks approaching his partner.

"We both know he died in a car crash, so is there any way I could access more information about the accident through here?"

"This is Jasmine's business. Stay out of it, McGinnis."

"I would, but I can't shake the feeling of something suspicious going on here," he replies, looking up at his mentor. "See, the guy who took over after both partners died is called Nicolas Boris. If you remember Jazz's story-"

"Nick, the man who ran off with her mother."

"Do you think there's a connection?"

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean anything. Nicole may have simply been unfaithful."

"Don't try to hide it, Bruce. I know you also suspect something here. You think they planned to kill Ethan and Andrew? I mean, they have a motive."

"They?"

"Well either both or one of them."

"How did Ethan die?"

"A previous article said he had a heart attack."

"So, why are you suspicious about his death?"

"Because he was almost thirty-five at the time with no history of heart disease."

After giving it a moment's thought, Bruce asks, "You need to access the information about their deaths?"

"Police reports and what not; how can I hack into GCPD's-"

"You can't," Bruce interrupts him. "Barbara strengthened the online security. Something about us snooping around without her knowledge, I wasn't listening." Terry raises a brow at him. "How else do you think I can tolerate the three of you?"

"Nice to know you tune me out most of the time," Terry rolls his eyes. "Anyway, how else can I get what I need?" Bruce gives him a slight smirk that Terry registers as bad news. "Please don't tell me I have to face Barbara."

"Then I won't say it," Bruce taunts.

"Why me?" Terry protests with a sigh. "By the way, why were you playing around with batarangs?"

"Experimenting with a new alloy."

"Oh yeah?"

Bruce tosses Terry the batarang he's holding so he can examine it. "It's cheaper than titanium but stays sharper for longer."

"What's the downside?"

"Bends easier."

Terry tests it by bending the tip and the end of the batarang with ease. "Oh. Are we still going to use them?"

"I need to run a few more tests, but there's a good chance they will be replacing the older models."

"Because it's cheaper?" Terry jokes with a smile.

"I may be a billionaire, but that doesn't mean the two of you are getting any less expensive."

"I prefer to think of myself as a necessary luxury."

"And I prefer you leave before I decide to cut you for the sake of the budget."

"Alright, alright I'm going," Terry scoffs as he grabs his jacket and heads up the stairs.

"Zip up your coat when you get out; it's getting cold out there. I'm sure you don't want to get sick."

"Yes, _mother,_" he calls back as he disappears out the cave.

Bruce rolls his eyes at the boy before turning his gaze back to the monitor as he reads the information displayed. _'He's learning,' _he quietly contemplates. He can't help but feel a certain sense of pride as he moves away from the large machine and back to a work bench to finish the tests on the new batarangs.


	13. Chapter 13

"Commissioner? There's a Mr. McGinnis here to see you."

"McGinnis?"

"Yes," the secretary's voice replies over the intercom. "Should I let him in?"

"Did he say what he wants?"

"To talk to you."

"What about?"

"Just let me in, Barbara," this time Terry's irritated voice speaks.

Rolling her eyes, she presses the intercom button to reply. "Fine. Send him in."

Not a second later, the door to her office slides open revealing Terry standing on the other end with hands in his pockets. "Some how I get the feeling you always look forward to my visits," he sarcastically quips, taking a seat in front of her.

"I like how you assume I have nothing better to do than enjoy your company," she retorts as he takes a seat on the available chair. "How's the girl?"

"Lucky."

"You trying to jinx her?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't sound too happy about it."

"It's complicated. Anyway, I'm here for some answers," he replies, his tone turning serious.

"Why?"

"Because your extra online security is a pain in the ass."

"Good. And in case you didn't get the hint yet, it means you stay out of police business. I'm assuming you know where this is going to lead to, so save your breath. You know the way out."

Ignoring her, he continues. "I need the case file on Andrew Christopher Douglas."

"Didn't you hear what I just said?"

"He was in a fatal car accident around seventeen years ago."

"McGinnis-"

"This could be a homicide case."

She momentarily stares at him before replying. "Do you have evidence to support that?"

"If I had that file, then maybe," he shrugs.

"Maybe?" She skeptically asks raising a brow at him.

"Barbara, I have nothing to work with except a hunch. Don't expect me to wow you with a book case of evidence when all I have is half a page of history."

"Well then, how'd you come up with a hunch?"

"Can I just have the case file, please?"

"You didn't answer my question. If this is something the police have to investigate-"

"I know the rest," he interrupts, "besides, first I have to make sure this is something _worth_ investigating. Now since you have so much on your plate already…" He replies eying the paper work and pot of coffee resting on one side of her table, "I think you would appreciate me doing some of the work."

"Is there any reason you won't tell me what's going on?"

"Not 'won't'. Can't."

"Sounds like you're poking your nose into an issue that is none of _your_ business either."

"What makes you say that?"

"Just a hunch," she replies, smiling.

"Does that mean I get the files?"

"One condition."

"There's always a catch," he sighs.

"If you have enough evidence to support homicide, you better tell me."

"Or what?" Barbara shoots a nasty glare his way wiping off the smile he has on his face. "Right, got it. You can send them to the computer."

"That won't be necessary," she replies getting up and walking over to one of the many file cabinets lining her walls.

She scans her fingerprint on a pad built into the metal side of one; opening a drawer, she quickly sifts through the files before pulling out a thin folder. Closing and locking the cabinet, she then makes her way back to her desk and slides the file in front of Terry.

He raises a brow at her. "What?" She asks.

"Nothing. I'm just a little surprised you still have them on paper."

"No matter how good I am with computers, they tend to crash without warning making it hard and sometimes impossible to recover the information. That would be a lot of work down the toilet, so I prefer keeping a hard copy on hand just in case."

"So you have five cabinets full of files since you became commissioner?" He asks grabbing and opening the file to read it.

"That's over twenty-eight years of work. This is only from the past five years." Terry looks up from the folder to raise a questioning brow at her.

"This case is seventeen years old. Why is it here?"

"Well, just like you, I got a hunch as well," she says with a smirk.

"Why didn't you put more time into investigating?"

"I had too much work on my hands back then. Although it's less now, partly thanks to you, I still don't have enough time to spend on it."

"Why not get Bruce to work on it?" She gives him a scowl that he clearly understands. "Uh, right." He closes the folder and stands to leave.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Now you _do_ want my company?"

"You're not leaving until you give me a good reason to let you walk out with that file in your hand. Otherwise it stays here."

"But-"

"I don't care if it takes you an hour, although I prefer it doesn't. Now, sit down." Letting out a frustrated sigh, he does as he is told and reopens the file.

Inside, he finds witness reports, the description of the accident and several photos of the crash. It seems Andrew's red convertible crashed into the side of truck filled with boulders. The impact had tipped the truck over, causing the giant ricks to bury the convertible, crushing it like an empty soda can. Although the wreck was clearly an accident, something doesn't make sense. He frowns as he holds up the picture that triggered his curiosity.

"Do you have a map of this intersection?" Terry asks Barbara.

By way of reply, she opens her desk drawer and pulls out a folded map of the city. She spreads it out on top of the desk and Terry quickly scans over it to find the intersection named in the files.

"It doesn't add up," he finally says.

"What doesn't? What are you talking about?" Barbara asks with confusion.

He lays down the picture and points first to the truck, then to some routes on the map. It only takes her a moment to understand.

"No way this would have happened without intention."

Barbara smiles at him. "I'm impressed, kid. It only took you about a minute and a half to figure it out."

"Five years with Bruce and you think I wouldn't catch on?" He asks with a smirk.

"Tell me one thing, McGinnis."

"Yeah?" he replies as he stands to leave with the files in hand.

"Does Jazz know you're doing this for her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Terry nervously rubs the back of his neck. "Like I said, it's complicated."

"Look, kid, I can understand your heart's in the right place, but doing this behind her back isn't right. If my friend found out my father was murdered, I wouldn't want him to keep it from me."

"Except I don't know how she would take this."

"She should still know."

"I'll tell her… eventually," he sighs. "I'll keep you posted."

"Good. Give her my regards and my usual warnings." Smiling, he nods in reply and leaves. Once he was out, Barbara presses the intercom button connecting her to her secretary. "Caitlin, do we still have the evidence collected from the wreck from Douglas's case seventeen years ago?"

"I think so," the reply comes in. "I don't think you asked for it to be destroyed."

"Good. Print out another copy of the case and ask the warehouse to have the the evidence prepared for examination."

"Will do. Anything else, commissioner?"

"No. Thank you, Caitlin." Easing back in her chair, she opens the case file on her computer and scans it over. _'Well, McGinnis we'll see how good you really are.'_


	14. Chapter 14

"Guess what?" Terry's voice asks, filling the quiet study in Wayne Manor.

Bruce is comfortably seated in one of the chairs beside the window gazing at the city skyline as the moon rises higher. He doesn't answer and remains seated with his chin resting on steepled fingers. Terry approaches him, places the file on Bruce's lap, and stares down at the old man with hands folded in front of him.

"Pop quiz, tell me what's wrong in there."

Bruce looks down at the file before opening it and reading the contents. He pulls out the picture and holds it in front of him as he studies it. However, he doesn't concentrate much to find the oddity in the picture, and within seconds, his brow rises in question.

"Exactly," Terry replies with a proud smile on his face.

"Don't come to any conclusions yet. Just because a truck is there doesn't mean it was murder."

"True, but a better question to ask is _why_ was the truck at that specific location versus all the other wider and easier roads just a block away? Not to mention that even back then, trucks had their own routes to reach construction sites."

"They simply could have been blocked off. Besides, we don't even know where the truck was heading. A lot of new buildings were coming up in 2029, so there might have been dozens of construction sites."

"Yeah, but this confirms my suspicions."

"No, it doesn't. At least not really. It's true that having a truck there in the middle of rush hour is odd, but not unusual. What you need to do is discredit other reasons of why it was there."

"Obviously to kill someone," Terry replies a little annoyed.

"McGinnis."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Blah, blah, blah; 'other reasons it was there'. Fine, I'll finish my research and prove I'm right."

"I never said you were wrong. You're on the right track, but you need hard enough evidence that could hold up in court," Bruce replies as he places the file on a nearby coffee table.

"Shit; forgot about court," he groans. "Any tips on how to track a man who's had seventeen years to run?"

"Work fast." Terry scowls at his useless reply. "Start with her mother and Nick."

"Nichole's MIA, and I haven't even looked into Nick's location but something tells me it isn't any different."

"That never stopped me."

"I have a better idea; I'm going to start with the whole truck thing. Since for whatever reason the police never got the chance to question the driver properly, I'm going to check his intended heading, and confirm other roads weren't blocked. I'll ask Max to pull out some records and see where that leads us."

"Have you told Jasmine yet?"

He puts a hand on the back of his neck. "Yes?"

"McGinnis, you can't-"

"I know," Terry replies, cutting off Bruce's lecture. "But who knows how she would react to this. She just got out of surgery; with a tempter like hers, if she gets too upset-"

"That's not an excuse. If this reaches court, the media is going to be all over it. She's going to find out one way or the other. For your sake, tell her before going any further with this."

"But-"

"This isn't negotiable."

"Fine. But if I'm found dead in some gutter, I'm haunting you," Terry replies as he grabs the file and heads towards the grandfather clock.

* * *

It didn't take long for Terry's logic to make sense to Jazz, which was what brought her to make the decision. That morning, she had thrown out all the pink lenses she had, but the action didn't finalize anything. What would cement it is deactivating the fake profile currently displayed on her computer screen. She has been staring at it for almost an hour now, remembering when she had first created it, the reasons why, and how she even thought up the material.

She was supposed to be this model citizen, having grown up in the outskirts of Sacramento with two older siblings, Michael and Lucy. Her parents were happily married and made enough to be considered upper middle class. What wasn't on the Interpol profile was added to her equally fake Facebook one instead. There she imagined herself to be a nature junkie who loved to climb trees, kayak through white water rivers, and hike unmarked trails. People could scroll through hundreds of pictures of her posing in countless national parks without even realizing they were photoshoped. They would have learned how much she loves to travel, European nations being her favorite to visit. She's also supposed to be some kind of humanitarian, volunteering for charities like Habitat for Humanity or Big Cat Rescue.

Jazz scoffs when she realizes how wild she let her imagination run three years ago, which was the birth of all these lies; but it's time to take it down, pull back those flower curtains and replace it with the truth. She starts with Interpol, hacking into the system the same way her friend had taught her all those years ago and removes all traces of its existence. She uses the encryption code that alters her IP address, protecting her from authorities who might try tracking her for the hacking offense.

She moves on to the more social profile, shaking her head at the 1,287 friends she had accumulated, most of them being people she had randomly added. At the time, she was surprised to learn how many were desperate enough to accept her request even though they had never met. However, they played their part in helping her build the façade and maintain it for so long. It's time to bury it though; so after making her way to the account settings, the cursor hovers over the button that will erase all of this. With a deep sigh, she presses it, and within nanoseconds it was all gone, as though it had never happened.

She can start over now, build a new profile, make new friends – real friends – and move on, hoping she will be accepted by society the way she is. So spends the better part of an hour recreating her profile, one where people can learn she's a city girl by heart, that she loves playing football, and the philosophy she lives by is "take one day at a time". She accepts the fact that she doesn't have that many pictures to display, even less being the number of people she truly considers friends, but she's okay with it. She doesn't care if people find out she doesn't volunteer anywhere, that she's held weird jobs (the latest being a dog walker), or that she's in love with Gotham's historic district.

A smile grown on her face as her list of interests grows, many of them she has learned from the countless friends she has made in group homes around the country. Pride moves through her when she adds the finishing touches before finally confirming the new profile. No more lies, no more wishing, no more disappointment.

A knock at the door grabs her attention. Closing down the browsers, she moves to the door and opens it. "Uh, hi," Jazz manages to stutter when she recognizes her guest is Commissioner Barbara Gordon.

"Douglas, right?" Barbara calmly asks, her hands stuffed in her jacket pockets as she stares at the surprised young woman.

"Yeah," Jazz replies. "What's this about?"

"You were Thorn's last victim couple days ago. I have a few questions regarding that night."

"Did you run out of detectives at your precinct?" Jazz asks as she steps aside to let Barbara in, but the commissioner's penetrating gaze as she passes by Jazz suggests she isn't in the mood for jokes.

"How did you run into him?" Barbara starts, her eyes now studying the tiny apartment.

"I was on my way home from the library; it was pretty late and I just wanted to get home, you know? So I crossed through some shady part of town. Next thing I know some guy jumps me from being and holds a towel or something against my face. I black out in seconds."

"What happened next?" Barbara asks, eyes trained on the young woman, making her slightly nervous for some reason.

"Uh, well, I wake up in this room; I was tied to the chair, my clothes were gone, and I could hear Thorn sharpening his knife. He starts asking me these questions."

"Like what?"

"Where the drugs are getting shipped, the container, stuff like that. I had no idea what he was talking about, but he didn't believe me. So he starts wailing on me," Jazz lies, looking away in hopes her performance is convincing enough. "He gets the knife and, well…" She lets her voice trail off as a hand sweeps across her face and down to her shoulder. "After he stabs me in the ribs, I black out. Next time I wake up, I'm in the hospital."

"Why would Thorn kidnap you?"

Jazz shrugs. "I heard, he killed some drug dealer's girl; so maybe he thought I was someone else's girl."

Barbara nods as she quietly moves to the couch and takes a seat, suggesting she isn't going anywhere yet. So Jazz follows her and sits in the chair Bruce had occupied the day before.

"Convincing story, kid," Barbara starts.

"It should be considering it's the truth."

"I heard a different version." Jazz frowns with curiosity. "Thorn said he never touched you, or seen you for that matter; said it was Batgirl that he had a tussle with, and a proud man like Thorn has no reason to lie about that."

"What, and his victim does? Never thought I'd see the day when cops take the bad guy's side."

"I never said that; just letting you know what I heard. Besides, the only things I believe are my own eyes, and what they saw that night was pretty interesting."

Jazz tenses. She knows Terry was forced to remove her suit before the police arrived, but did anyone notice it?

"And what would that be?" She hesitantly asks.

"I think given you know what really happened, your guess would be pretty accurate," Barbara taunts with a smile. "You're Batgirl."

Jazz's eyes widen with shock; she's not sure what to do. She could go on a whole spiel of denial, but if Barbara saw the suit, what is there to deny? However, she's not about to give up a confession that easily; she knows better than that.

"Relax, kid," Barbara suddenly says, stopping Jazz's mind from reeling off the tracks. "You're lucky McGinnis is a fast thinker."

"Wait, so you know?"

"Know? Hon, you stole the boots I wore all those years ago."

"You're the original Batgirl?" Jazz gasps.

"Was; no one seems to get that right," she sighs.

"So all this about Thorn-"

"Your name and picture were never released to the press, so even though he's saying it's all a lie, he doesn't know who you are anyway. Your identity's safe, and the press still take the cops' word over that of a killer."

Jazz releases the breath she didn't realize she was holding. If Barbara hadn't been on their team, Lord knows what the press would have done, let alone what the criminal world would do with that information. No doubt they were lucky.

"I noticed you and McGinnis have a lot in common, though."

"Depends on how you look at it," Jazz scoffs, clearly in disagreement.

"Then you should adopt my point of view. Listen, this job, it's not a joke," Barbara warns. "You lose focus for half a second and your head could get sliced off."

"I can handle myself."

"I see that," she sarcastically replies, making Jazz look away. "Word of the wise, listen to your partner," Barbara advises as she stands. "And stay out of police business," she adds before moving to the door.

"Wait, so you're okay with all this?" Jazz calls out.

"Professionally, no; personally, as long as you don't destroy my reputation. See you around, kid." With a nod in her direction, Barbara heads out the door, closing it behind her and leaving Jazz to deal with a slew of clashing emotions.


	15. Chapter 15

Hours ago, Terry was occupying himself with the case file that has now obsessed his mind. But after working so hard to answer questions that only raised more questions, he ended up bent over his desk, his head resting on folded arms as he dozes off. Still asleep with pencil in hand and papers spread out under his head, his phone suddenly goes off, startling him.

Waking with a snort, he drowsily searches for his slim cell phone buried under the dozens of papers littering the tabletop. Unfortunately, he couldn't find it in time so the call diverts to voicemail. Rolling his eyes with annoyance, he drops his head back down on the desk. But before he has a chance to snooze again, his phone dings indicating a voicemail. Finding the tiny gadget beneath one of the case files, he unlocks it and listens to the message.

"I'm surprised you didn't answer considering you forced me to finish this paper work for you tonight," Max's voice tiredly speaks. "After pulling an all-nighter, I finally got the results of this _tremendously_ easy search; I hope you're noting the sarcasm. Okay, I checked all the roads, big and small, and all the truck lanes within a fifty-mile radius. A minor road southwest of the address you gave me was closed for construction, and there was an intersection jammed with traffic northeast. That's basically it for the day. But what's interesting is-" _Beep._

"'Is' what?" Terry cries out with anticipation when the voicemail's time limit cuts her off. He quickly dials Max's number and waits for her to answer.

"Predictable," Max answers with a smile in her voice.

"Is what?" Terry anxiously asks.

"What?"

"What's interesting?"

"You know, saying please is a nice gesture."

"Max!"

"Alright, alright. Well, you remember the boulders you told me about? No one within that radius needed them, so if this truck was driving them somewhere, it's definitely no where close."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"No one needed boulders?"

"Uh, no," she replies raising a brow.

"And no one close provides those types of boulders?"

"Closest is at least 150 miles away from the location. But the drive would be-"

"Pointless, cause no one needed them," he finishes for her as he picks up the picture of the wreck.

"Am I talking to a parrot here?"

Suddenly a realization strikes him when he takes a closer look at the picture. He hasn't noticed the detail before, but he isn't sure about his discovery.

"Max, do you still have that picture I e-mailed you?"

"The spring break one with the naked-"

"No, Max," he replies rolling his eyes. "The car accident."

She lets out a little chuckle. "Jeez, relax, what's with you?"

Ignoring her comment, he continues with instructions. "Zoom in and focus on the asphalt. Do you see anything odd?"

Using her shoulder to keep the phone pressed to her ear, she does as requested. She enhances the picture before focusing on it. "Um, no. Should I?"

"Come on, you're smarter than that. There's something missing, isn't there?"

"Terry, I think you need some sleep 'cause I don't notice—Hang on a second."

"Skid marks are missing; it seems a little off. Do me a favor and check out the ones caught at different angles."

"Just a second. By the way, why aren't you using your own computer?"

"Lazy."

"At least you're honest. Okay, four photos with no skid marks belonging to the car."

"And the red light belonged to the car not the truck, right?"

"Seems so. Why?"

"Okay, red light and heavy traffic," he says more to himself than to Max. "You'd think someone would at least _try_ to stop."

"Maybe the driver was suicidal," Max adds to his thoughts.

"No. There was no reason for those kinds of attempts."

"How would you know? Did you know the guy?"

"Uh, in a way."

Interested, Max straightens up in her seat. "Wait, what exactly does that mean? Terry, who is the guy?"

"Not important, thanks for the help; you're awesome."

"Don't you dare hang up on me, McGinnis." Unfortunately for her, the next thing she hears is a click disconnecting the phone call. "McGinnis!"

Refreshed with a new determination, Terry shoots up off his chair, picks up his jacket from the nearby couch, and heads out his apartment door.

* * *

"This isn't healthy for you," Bruce's baritone voice echoes off the walls in the cave as he eyes the dark haired figure sitting at the console.

"Hm?" The figure replies uninterested.

"Terry, you've been working on this for over four days without taking a break. You haven't found anything-"

"Since when did you sleep?" Terry cuts him off.

"Excuse me?" Bruce asks as he makes his way to his side.

"I got here at eight. It's ten. Where were you?"

"So now I don't get to sleep?" Bruce answers with a raised brow. "Why are you here so early?"

"Nothing better to do," Terry absently replies, turning his attention back to the screen.

"I'm assuming you found something interesting since you're so obsessed with this case now."

"I'm not obsessed," he retorts. "It's practice. Anyway, check out these pictures. I blew them up so it's easier to see."

"Skid marks are missing," Bruce quickly deduces despite the fact he barely glances at the screen. "It took you longer than I thought to figure it out."

Terry whips around to face Bruce. "Wait, you knew?" A slight smirk appears on Bruce's wrinkled face. "Then why didn't you say anything? That could have saved me hours of work!"

"You're the one who poked around, not me."

Terry twists his face into an annoyed scowl. "You're a horrible mentor, you know that?"

"Noted," Bruce sarcastically replies.

"Since you ruined my moment, my next hunch is that the brakes were cut; that's why there were barely any skid marks."

"But-"

"The problem is there are several problems. One being the brakes could have failed on their own; another is if it _was_ murder, sabotage can't be proven without the evidence, and last, even if we did have the evidence it'd be hard to prove. Not to mention we don't know where our suspects are, and I'll be lucky if Jazz kills me for continuing this case without her consent. Got any advice?"

"Good luck." With that said, Bruce turns around and heads to the stairway.

"Bruce, you gotta give me something here," Terry pleads as he rises.

With a sigh, Bruce turns to face him. "There are ways to prove the brake lines were severed despite the car being crushed beyond recognition."

"Wait, she still has the car? Anything else you forgot to mention?"

Bruce silently stares at Terry for a moment, before turning and heading up the stairs. "Ask Barbara about it."

He lets out a tired sigh as he gets up to pay the commissioner a visit. Right now, he would rather face Barbara than confess to Jazz about the investigation. In her condition, the last thing he wants is her getting angry, which she most definitely will be; but it's not all that keeps him from telling the truth. He knows she's a very determined person and it's obvious she's protective over personal matters. If he tells her about his suspicions of murder, she would want to get involved despite the fact she is physically incapable.

But what if he can't solve the case? He knows that Jazz's mother is involved in this somehow, but there is no way he can pin her to the accident. He has no suspects to begin with, and progress is stressfully slow. This case really has become his obsession not because it involves his partner's past, but because it's one challenge he needs to overcome. An old case, worries, intentions to protect a friend, slow progress, and challenges sum up his concerns and none seem to be improving much. In his own mind, the only solution is to turn into a workaholic.

* * *

The streets of Paris are supposed to be beautiful under the dim street lamps and the brightness of the full moon, at least that's what the rumors said. Her wavy black hair gently sways with the wind as her gray eyes stare at the Eiffel Tower. Ever since she was with her husband, she always dreamed of an evening like this. Clutching her trench coat tighter in an attempt to keep warm, she makes her way to the café across the street, where her ex-boyfriend promised to meet her in.

Mistakes, regrets, and pain have haunted her for seventeen years now. Her conscious has been eating away at her long enough, and it's what forces her clear it. But no matter how much money she spends, she can't find the one person that would make sleeping at night easier.

"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle," the French host greets the olive complexioned woman once she reaches the front door of the café. "Avez-vous une réservation?"

"Oui, c'est pour Nicole Cleland," she replies in a perfect Parisian accent.

"Ah, oui, Nicole. S'il vous plais, suivez-moi." He grabs a food and wine menu and leads her to the saved table by the window. "If you don't mind me asking, Mademoiselle," the host asks in his thick French accent, "but will you be dining wiz anyone else tonait?"

"Yes," she replies. Once they reach the table, she takes off her coat and folds it on the back of the chair before taking a seat. "He will be arriving in a few minutes. Il s'appelle Nicolas."


	16. Chapter 16

Snowfall begins to cover the French streets with a light blanket of white. Nicole is used to the streets of Paris, having lived here for so long; but every time the snow covers them, those feelings of elation always return as though it's her first night in the French capital.

"I still don't understand your fascination with the snow," a voice says, waking her from a trance.

She turns to face him. "Nick, you're late," she starts in an unwelcoming tone.

"Nice to see you, too," he replies.

After taking off his jacket, he eases into the seat across from her and signals a waiter. He orders a club sandwich and a beer while Nicole orders a Caesar salad and another glass of red wine. After taking their orders and collecting the menus, the waiter gives a polite smile and walks away.

Nick turns to Nicole with a smug grin on his face. "Well, well, well; what's the reason for this dinner? You missing me?"

"Get over yourself. There's something I need you to do for me."

"Ah, is there something your wealth can't buy you?" He asks without wiping the grin off his face.

"Shut it," she scolds, but that doesn't seem to affect him much. The waiter returns with their drinks.

After setting them down, he gives another polite smile. "Your dinners will be ready in a few minutes."

Once the waiter is out of earshot, Nicole continues. "Here's the deal, I'm trying to find someone."

"Oh?" He asks intrigued. "Why me when you can get anyone else for a cheaper price? Or is this an excuse to see me again?"

Ignoring his comment, she asks, "how much do you want?"

"Depends. Who am I looking for?"

She hesitates and takes a sip of wine before giving him a quiet answer. "Jasmine."

"Jasmine?" He asks with a raised brow. "Douglas?" Looking away, she nods once. "You're kidding. Did you forget our deal?" He hisses, his arrogant smile suddenly disappearing.

"She's my daughter. I have every right. Besides, our deal was off the second you dumped me."

"Why now then? I left you years ago."

"That's none of your business. Look, I just need you to find her and you know I'll pay."

He studies her face with skeptical eyes. "You agreed not to talk."

"I wasn't planning to," she coldly replies.

"How do I know you won't?"

"Because I don't want anyone to find out either."

Satisfied with her answer, he takes a swig of his beer. "What about the kid? You planning on confessing to her?"

"No," Nicole replies, hoping she's hiding her true intentions well enough.

Believing her, Nick leans back in his chair. "Good. Now, I take it you tried looking for her yourself?"

"The orphanage transferred her and I lost track. I know you tend to have better luck with this kind of stuff."

Giving the offer some thought, he leans in and replies, "hundred grand."

"What?" She looks up surprised.

"Hundred grand; that's how much I'll do it for."

"You're kidding." Staying silent, he looks her dead in the eye with his sly grin. "Fine. How long will it take?"

"As long as it needs."

"Then put a rush on it. I'll send you half now if it's incentive you're looking for."

"Tough bargain. This is why I like you Nikki," he teases. "But so we're clear, if I find out you spilled to her, you'll have the pleasure of picking out her casket, you got that?" He warns with a menacing grin.

With a heavy sigh, she nods once before downing the rest of her wine with one gulp.


	17. Chapter 17

The last time her life has changed this much was when she was four years old. Fast forward seventeen years, and she finds herself trying to acclimate to a new life yet again. The original Batgirl had given her blessing, her partner in crime fighting has now become a friend, and she's finally accepting who she is rather than pretend to be someone else. All good things are happening, so why does she feel so conflicted?

She stares at her suit laid out on the repair table, the dried blood already been cleaned off of the ragged slits she is getting ready to mend. Everything around her suggests that she has earned her title, but she still feels like a failure, a poser underserving of the named but not sure why. She figured it could be because she hasn't authentically connected with her team yet.

She cringes with self-hate when she remembers how angry Terry had been with her, how fed up he was with her evasiveness. She needs to make it up to him somehow, because telling him the story he should have learned months ago isn't enough. She rests a hand on her damaged suit, fingering the slit in the middle of it. If he had known who she really was before this incident, she might not even have cuts to repair; they would have been better synced rather than struggle for the last few weeks.

A sigh escapes at the thought, but she figures there's no use dwelling on a mistake that has been corrected. She gingerly slips her injured arm out of the sling, setting it aside so she can get to work. Although Bruce had explained the basics of the suit's design, her knowledge was still limited; so halfway into the circuit restoration, she sets her tool down and pushes away from the table. She knows the blueprints are saved on the main computer, so she decides referencing it would be the best way to avoid botching the repair.

Holding her left arm close to her chest to avoid moving the tender shoulder, she uses her good hand to run the search; but typing with one hand proves to be a tricky task, causing her to accidentally bring up the wrong file. A glance at it though, stops her from carrying out her search. What she stumbled on to is Terry's research on her father's murder. Reading that word tenses her frame, while discovering the evidence to support it sends her thoughts reeling.

"Shit," the whispered curse reaches her ears, making her head whip around to find Terry at the top of the steps, eyes wide when he realized what Jazz was reading. "Look, I can explain," he starts as he descends the stairs.

"What the hell is this?" She hisses, forgetting her earlier resolve to be kinder to him.

"I was going to tell you about it when I was sure."

"This looks like you're pretty damn sure; so what the hell were you waiting for?"

He kneads the back of his neck as he tries figuring out a way to calm her down. "I didn't think you were ready to hear it yet."

"Excuse you?" She rounds on him, eyes blazing with anger at his assumption.

Wrong answer. "You're not in the best shape, and news like this could make things worse."

"Oh, you're just full of them," she replies, moving past him. "How could you do this? Who gave you the right to snoop around without my consent?" She asks, heading back to the workbench to retrieve her sling and throw it around her neck.

"I'm sorry; I know I shouldn't have, but when I looked into your dad's history, info was pointing to foul play."

"Yet, you thought it was a good idea to hide that from me. You went ahead and played detective, trying to dig for more evidence."

"Like I said, you weren't in a condition to take the news," he reaffirms.

"As noble as your intentions were," she sarcastically replies, her eyes holding his in a menacing glare, "it doesn't get you off the hook. You had no right, and it stops now."

The command makes him frown. "Why?"

"Because I said so," she states, hiding the fear shaking her insides.

If she has to accept one more change, one more life altering fact, she might break down. However, Terry can't see that; he doesn't understand why she wouldn't want to find out the truth.

"You really want to just sweep this under the rug?" He asks, not convinced that she wants all this to stop.

"Shut up," she shoots, scowling at him.

"Cause it's not going to happen," he continues, ignoring her. "You can't forget something like this; it's just going to keep gnawing at you, and you won't be able to fight the regret."

"You don't know that; you're dad hasn't been dead for seventeen years."

"Powers is still out there," he counters, reminding her of what he has to live with everyday. Her glare eases as his deepens. "He got away because I made a mistake, so regret isn't new to me. If you don't want me to go forward with this, then I won't; but you better be ready to live with a question that'll haunt you for a very long time."

She looks away, finding the subject difficult to deal with. She wants this to end, to stop changing her reality, but she can't deny Terry's point. Regret will eat away at her if she never finds out the truth. Terry takes a step towards her, picking up on her wavering decision.

"Jazz," he tries again, softening his tone. "Closure can't be overrated."

She lifts her eyes to the monitor glowing behind him, curiosity pulling her in, vengeance tipping her scales.

"What do you have so far?" She quietly asks, bringing her eyes back to him.

"Nick and you mom are in the spotlight," he replies, noting the twitch in her eye at the mention of Nicole. "The commissioner saved your dad's car in the evidence warehouse. If I can prove it was tampered with before the accident, Barbara will reopen the case and start and official investigation."

"When were you going to work on the car?"

"In the morning."

"Then I'm coming with you," she states, making his brow furrow.

"You sure?"

"Only way you can work on this is with me, got it?" She replies.

He understands the protective possessiveness she's claiming over the case; after all, Andrew is her father, so he nods in agreement and hopes she won't suddenly change her mind if and when they come across difficulty.


	18. Chapter 18

The forty-minute trip to the warehouse was a quiet one, neither one knowing what to say exactly. A sleepless night is the reason Jazz remains silent with eyes watching the buildings go by, while Terry chooses to follow her lead, speaking only when she's ready. However, somehow neither one finds this awkward, even after Terry parks the car and shuts the engine off. He turns to her and watches for a reaction, but the dullness in her eyes prompt him to open the door and step out, with Jazz imitating him. They make their way into the warehouse, pass through the standard security, and meet with Barbara on the other side. Greeting them with a nod, she leads them to the basement where the larger or older pieces of evidence are stored. Apart from a few words considered to be small talk, the journey is another silent one.

While Terry occupies his mind with details of the case and what to check for, Jazz's mind on the other hand, is surprisingly blank. It's the only way for her to stop the gruesome images from the file fill her head and churn fear. Despite the effort though, she still ends up feeling like running out of the building; but with her legs pulling her closer to the final destination, she manages to avoid acting on her irrational instincts. A few moments later, they arrive to a large room housing boxes and plastic bags stacked against the walls and reaching the ceiling. In the middle is a tarp covering the crucial piece of evidence that rests on a car lift.

They stop just after the entrance before being greeted by a husky, balding employee. "Commissioner Gordon," he greets holding out a hand, which she shakes.

"Bill," she replies, letting go.

"I got the car set up for you," he explains, his suspicious eyes drifting to the other two occupants behind her.

"Good. I appreciate the discretion," she adds, her pale blue eyes hardening on his pudgy face.

"Uh, right," he stutters, understanding her message. He moves to the tarp-covered car with the others trailing him. "Last time it was touched was ages ago, so it should still be intact."

Without hesitation, he rips the sheet off revealing the red convertible, or what used to be a classic car. Just like in the pictures, the car's hood, including the windshield, are almost completely flattened by the boulders that had rolled over it. Since the car's canopy was down at the time of the accident, the upholstery is torn up, with springs sticking out of the many holes made in the cushions. The rear part of the car seems to have received the least damage since a few dents defined the trunk of the car.

But the most heart wrenching sight is the large bloodstain, turned dark from age, marring the driver's tan leather seat. Bill and Barbara never notice Jazz closing her eyes and turning away, but Terry does, and he can't help but relate to the tragedy collapsing her insides. Her quivering chin reminds him of the day over five years ago when he returned to his father's apartment to pick up his stuff. The cleaners had mopped up the blood, but they failed to lift the stain it left on the wooden floor. He was frozen by the door, staring at it for the better half of an hour, the truth sinking in slowly and tormenting him before the sadness engulfed him.

"You know how to operate these cranes?" Bill suddenly asks, pointing at the car lift and pulling Jazz and Terry out of their thoughts. Terry gives him a nod. "Good. I don't know what you guys are looking for but good luck 'cause this is one hell of a mess. Anyway, take your time; if you need anything just press the intercom button on that wall over there." Using a thumb, he points to the wall a few feet behind him. With nothing left to be said, he nods at Barbara and leaves them to get on with whatever they came to do.

"You have an hour," Barbara informs Terry. "I have a meeting upstairs, so make sure you're done before I get back."

Once they have been left alone, Terry turns to his partner and places a comforting hand on her shoulder.

She shakes away his gentle grip. "Just get this over with," she demands with an unexpectedly icy tone, surprising him.

Terry tries again, this time spinning her to face him and finding the shaking chin and watery eyes she is trying to hide. Very few words are the right ones to say in a situation like this, but it wasn't words that helped set him free from the depressed trance he was in when he stood in his father's doorway; it was a gesture. So Terry repeats it by pulling her into a warm embrace similar to the one he received back then; it had eased his growing sorrow and anxiety, helping him move on, and it has the same effect on her.

It takes a few seconds for him to feel her stiff frame loosen and her arms wrap around him. Jazz never realizes just how much she needed that hug until they part. When she looks up at him, her face remains blank, but her eyes show the deepest gratitude when they stare into Terry's. After a few seconds of comfortable silence, Terry clears his throat and turns to the controls that operate the lift.

"I guess we should get started," he quietly states as the hydraulics' humming fill the room, slowly hoisting the wreck into the air.

* * *

A half hour into the examination, Terry has already taken detailed pictures of the disc brakes and whatever is left of the pads, a semi-smashed brake fluid reservoir and wires connecting it to the braking system, as well as the almost intact rear axles. Finally done with the car's underside, he lowers it down and pulls off the latex gloves he had on. Jazz, however, discreetly makes her way around to the passenger side of the car with a finger sliding along the damaged frame. The door to the convertible is jammed, so she lifts herself into the seat, keeping her eyes off of the bloodstain.

She runs a finger across the smooth, leather wrapped dashboard, examining it with both her eyes and sensitive digit. She finds the latch to the glove compartment and flips it open. However, she doesn't realize the hinges were damaged until the entire flap topples to the floor along with the compartment's contents. Picking up the items, she places them on her lap and begins sifting through them.

The first items Jazz picks up are the car's registration and insurance cards. She puts those aside before picking up a pair of broken sunglasses. Recognizing them to be her mother's, she carelessly tosses them aside; but the gold plated pen she finds, she gingerly places beside her. It's the one her father constantly lost; she remembers one time it took him a week to finally find it all because she suggested to check the most obvious place to a four-year-old: his desk drawer. She got to go to the candy store because of it.

There is a piece of paper folded three ways that she picks up and unfolds. Her heart sinks when she discovers it's his will. She vaguely remembers the day before the accident her father had introduced her to his lawyer when they went out for lunch. She was paying too much attention to her spaghetti and meatballs to understand what was going on. Reading part of it, Jazz realizes that in the case of an untimely death, Ethan was to be her guardian, not her mother. She is also to inherit half of her father's fortune once she turns twenty-five.

She lets out a sigh and places the will next to the pen. The last item in the stack was a picture that brings a nostalgic smile to her face. It's when they had visited a parade in downtown Gotham; she was almost four and sitting on her father's shoulders. The two were watching the float passing by before looking back to smile at the camera. Jazz was grabbing at her father's red hair as he held onto her little legs.

"What's that?" Terry suddenly asks, bringing her attention out of the forgotten memory. She never noticed him standing behind her, staring at the picture before he spoke up.

"Nothing, just a picture," she replies, flipping it over and hiding it between the papers. Taking them in her hands, she climbs out of the car without looking at Terry. "Are we done?" she asks as she straightens her sling.

"Yeah," he sighs. "Wayne'll analyze these; hopefully he should have something by tonight."

"Then what?"

"Barbara will have CSU reanalyze the car so they get the same result. Courts will have an easier time once things are legally on record."

"What if Bill talks about us being here?"

"I wouldn't worry about that," he replies as Barbara returns.

"You two finished?" She asks as she approaches them.

Terry nods. "Appreciate the help, Commish."

"No problem, kid," she nods before her eyes move to the papers in Jazz's hands. "You took those from the car?" Jazz hesitantly nods. "I'm sorry, but you can't take them. At least not the papers," she adds when the gleaming pen catches her eyes. She can tell it meant a lot to Jazz by the way her grip tightened around it.

"Fine," Jazz agrees, looking down at the registration form to read the address.

She places the will, insurance and registration cards on top of the broken glove box lid so it looks like it came apart on impact. The pen and photo she stuffs in her back pocket, glad she has a piece of her father she can carry with her. It'll make uncovering family secrets easier to bear, and unbeknownst to her, help face her mother who is on the eight hour flight back to Gotham.


	19. Chapter 19

Terry knocks a second time before opening the door to Jazz's apartment when she doesn't answer. He finds her slowly pacing back and forth in her living room as she reads the files Terry had given her. He silently approaches and waits for her to acknowledge him; finally aware of his presence, she stops and turns to face him.

"Bruce finished the analysis," Terry quietly announces with his eyes watching every twitch. She knows the chances of it being an accident are slim so she isn't surprised when Terry continues. "Power lines to the brake fluid reservoir were cut."

Jazz stands silent, staring into space with a mind frozen in thought, before blinking a few times and turning to Terry. The look on her face, however, intrigues him: for the first time in days, she seems optimistic.

"My mom and Nick are connected to this, I know it. We just have to figure out who did their dirty work."

"How do-"

"I know someone who can help," she cuts him off as her eyes perk up.

She pulls off her sling and tosses it on the couch along with the folder before she heads to the door with jacket in tow.

"Wait, where-"

"I'll give you a call later tonight." But before she has a chance to step out the door, Terry manages to grab a hold of her arm. He raises his brows anticipating a better explanation. "What?"

"You _know_ someone?"

"Yeah; he's a friend from a while back. I don't know how, but he's like this info magician."

"Why didn't you mention him before?" Terry asks, letting go of her arm.

She shrugs as she opens the door. "You never asked." He scowls at her before she disappears behind the closing door.

* * *

She opens the door to the cheap bar and takes a step in. Greeted by the smell of cigarette smoke and stale beer, Jazz uses the dim light shining from a few bulbs above the pool table and bar to find the familiar face. Assuming he hasn't changed, she scans the room for a tall, well-built man in his mid-twenties. It isn't long before she spots him by the pool table, but it takes her a second to recognize him considering he has grown a goatee.

He notices the toned woman arriving at the other end of the table, stopping just as he strikes the cue ball that sends a striped yellow one into the corner pocket. He straightens and meets Jazz's eyes with a smile, noting the irritated look on her face.

"Well, look at you," he greets as his eyes glide over her figure, studying every curve the dim light bounces off of. "All grown up and filled out." His eyes once again meet hers but his smile never fades even though Jazz continues to frown at him. "That glare would be scarier if your bangs weren't in the way."

"Four months, Tank. I got four months in Juvi because of you."

She knew him only as Tank while she was JD to him. They had never exchanged their real names or contact information when they first met and it stayed that way until they parted ways; it was one of the few codes they lived by.

"It wasn't my fault you got caught, JD," he replies. He moves to another edge and bends over as he aims for a red striped ball. "I told you to bolt, you didn't listen."

Happy with his aim, his arm pushes the stick forward, successfully sending the ball in a pocket. With a grin, he straightens and analyzes the table again.

"I _did_ run; you never said where the cops were coming from."

"My bad," he quips, indifferent about the issue. He eyes his next target and bends over to aim. "Besides, if you were so pissed at me, you could have squealed on us since you knew where we hung out."

"I should have," Jazz retorts switching her weight to another leg.

"I agree, considering the deal the ADA offered you, so why didn't you?" Tank asks lifting his eyes to meet hers. She looks away and shrugs making him smile. A purple ball makes it into a side pocket, and Tank straightens to look at her. "Now, I forget, exactly why are you angry at me?" He smoothly asks, winning her over.

"You're still partially responsible for getting me caught," she counters, folding her arms and regaining eye contact.

"Oh, so I guess I'm only partially sorry." He gives her a pearly white smirk making it hard for her to repress a smile. "Thanks for forgiving me."

"I never-" She begins to protest before he interrupts her.

"So how've you been?" He turns his attention back to his game, but Jazz picks up the cue ball interrupting him. Annoyed, he rolls his eyes as he straightens and rests his chin on the pool stick's end.

"I need your help," she states.

"Six years I don't see you; but then, when you suddenly show up, you blame me for getting you caught, fail to forgive me, and then expect me to help just like that?"

"Get over yourself, Tank. It's not like we had some dramatic falling out. It wasn't my fault I got relocated to-"

"Chicago," he casually finishes for her, as if she had already told him what had happened even though they haven't spoken since the night she was arrested.

This takes her aback, but only for a moment before remembering her friend has his way of getting even the most classified information. Her surprised expression eases into an intrigued one.

"If you knew where I was, how come you never called?"

"Considering you were fresh out of Juvi, I didn't think you wanted in again. But you proved me so very wrong considering you got into trouble for B&E charges. How'd you get off without time?"

"I squealed on a couple of douches."

Tank finally lets a genuine smile cross his lips, glad to learn she was loyal only to him. A few seconds of silence pass as the two stare at each other before Jazz clears her throat.

"So, are you going to help me?"

"How can I refuse my favorite pickpocket?" Tank replies giving her a reassuring smile.

"Come on, I'll buy you a beer," Jazz offers as she returns the cue ball to the table and escorts her friend to the bar.

They seat themselves on two vacant stools at the end where no one around can listen in on their private conversation, and Jazz waves to the bartender.

"Two brews," she asks when the tattooed man approaches.

"Make it one; I'll just have a Coke, thanks," Tank corrects. She whips her head around to give him a surprised look.

"You're turning down a free drink?" She asks once the bartender is out of earshot.

"I'm expected to be somewhere in an hour."

"Where? An AA meeting?" She asks half jokingly but hoping it isn't true.

"Surgery," he replies, surprising her again. The drinks arrive along with a bowl of mixed nuts, and he gives the barkeep a thankful nod.

"Surgery? Are you sick?" Jazz asks concerned.

"Relax, I'm performing it," he calmly explains, amused by how he keeps shocking Jazz.

"Performing? You're a surgeon? Since when?"

"I have a few more weeks of interning before I sit for the exam."

"Wait, let me get this straight. When I met you, you were a straight C and D student in high school with no intentions of going to college, but now you're a _doctor_? What the hell?"

"Actually, I was a B and C student in high school, and I never told you I was in college before we parted ways."

"You must have been a sophomore the last time I saw you then."

"Yup. I went back to Bedford, Mass for med school, didn't like it there, so I transferred back here."

"Where did you study?"

"St. Michaels School of Medicine."

"Specialization?"

"Trauma." Something in his tone suggests he knows more than he's letting on.

"Uh, where are you-?" She reluctantly asks.

"Interning? Gotham Memorial." The hospital she was admitted to. He turns his attention to the nuts in the bowl and fishes for the cashews. "By the way, your arm is supposed to stay in a sling if you want that shoulder to heal properly."

Her eyes go wide with shock as a sly smirk draws on his face. "Don't tell me-"

"Jasmine Douglas; birthday August 23rd; height 5'8", weight 148 lbs, blood type A positive. I was one of your doctors; I recognized you when they wheeled you in. Plus, I was the one who stitched you up; don't worry, I do a great job. There shouldn't be any scarring on your cheek."

He looks back at her to find disbelief sketched all over her face. His pearly grin grows wider. "You know, JD wasn't that creative of a nick name now that I think about it; but how'd you get all messed up like that?"

It takes her a short moment to compose herself enough to quip, "I thought you knew everything."

"The report was vague. My attending knew what happened, but he wasn't willing to share for some reason."

"Uh, well, I was mugged."

Tank gives her half a nod as his mouth turns up in thought. "You need to work on a better lie, JD."

"It's the truth," she tries defending herself, before taking a long swig of her beer.

"You forget I'm the one who taught you to fight? There's no way you'd let a couple of muggers mess you up that bad unless they weren't muggers. So what's the real story?"

She nervously kneads the back of her neck. "I can't tell you what really happened, so just trust me on this one."

He lets out a sigh. "Always full of secrets."

"Your turn to give some up considering you know my blood type."

He gives her a smile before extending a hand for her to shake. "The name's Henry Whitman Jr. I will be 27 on May 18th, height 6'4", weight 185 lbs of muscle and blood type is O positive." Amused, Jazz shakes his hand as she gives him a warm smile. "I think I have an idea of the favor you'll be asking me in a few seconds." Both of their smiles disappear, with Jazz's gaze lowering to her half empty bottle accumulating condensation. "Your father's death seemed suspicious to me too."

"How come I never noticed you were a genius?" Jazz scoffs.

"Because I'm not; I just pay attention to detail. The fact there was a construction truck filled to the rim with boulders in the middle of rush hour on narrow streets didn't seem right." Jazz gives him a skeptical look; she knows he must have pulled out the information recently. "Ok, so maybe I did a little research after I found out he was your father. But before you ask me anything, I have no idea who's behind it."

"That's what I need you to find out, though. My mom and Nicolas Boris are connected if that helps." Henry is ready to refuse, but the desperate look in her eyes makes him reconsider.

"Maybe I can call someone…" He shrugs.

Jazz's face on the other hand lights up and she can't help but throw her good arm around his neck pulling him into a grateful embrace that surprises him. However, he isn't nearly as enthusiastic, so he takes her wrist to pull her away from him.

"What are you going to do with the information anyway?" He asks, concern filling his dark blue eyes.

"Not what you're thinking," she replies, knowing he's assuming the worst, but he doesn't seem reassured. "Look, it's a long story, but I have some friends working on the case for me; we're planning on going the legal route, no foul play; but we need a lead."

He studies her face, particularly the bandage still covering her cheek and making him remember how close to death she had been a week ago.

"That lead you're looking for, is that what got you messed up?" He suddenly asks, making her look away for a second when she remembers the pain inflicted on her.

"No," she finally replies, looking him in the eye. Taking her word for it, Henry nods, relaxing again.

"I'm guessing your fiancé is the one doing all the work, then." He lets go of her wrist and takes a sip of his soda.

"You heard about that?"

"Gossip keeps ER doctors awake," he quips, making her laugh lightly.

"Yeah, he's helping, but he's not my fiancé."

"You just keep getting more and more interesting," he grins.

"I missed you, you know," she unexpectedly confesses.

Henry can't repress a chuckle. "_Me_ of all people? You do remember the beatings you got when I trained you, right?"

She smiles at the memories. "I know you took it easy on me, or I would have been in a body cast at least eight times."

"Nine, actually," he corrects. "I wanted to call after you got out."

"What stopped you?"

His deep blue eyes gaze into her gray ones for a moment. "Didn't want to get too attached in case we never saw each other again." His honest reply, however, earns him a punch in the arm.

"You almost pulled off the smart guy act if it wasn't for that stupid logic. We were partners in crime, twip; of course we were attached! I always had your back and I know you had mine, until I got caught that is."

"What part of 'run' did you not understand?"

"Do me a favor, never give anyone directions," she counters, making him laugh again. "One other thing," she adds grabbing his hand and flipping it palm side up. She finds a pen behind the bar and scribbles something in the middle of his hand. "Tattoo that on before you scrub up for surgery." He looks at his palm once she lets go and reads a set of digits he guesses to be her phone number. "That way you won't have an excuse for not calling."

A sheepish grin flashes her way. "Don't worry; I won't forget. Trust me."

"I'll hold it against you if you do," she replies with a playful smile.

He takes a last gulp from his soda and stands. "I gotta head out. I'm glad I was predictable enough to find."

"The hell you were! Do you have any idea how many bars there are in the Narrows? I checked at least ten before this place."

"Well, now you know where to find me every other night," he leans in to give her a parting hug.

"Good luck on your surgery, _Dr._ Whitman," she winks as he steps away.

"Put your sling back on, Jazz," he calls back before heading out the door and leaving Jazz calmed by the thought that she'll soon have closure.

* * *

Even in the darkness of night, it's easy to tell the house looks almost the same as when she had left it, except for the dying and weed infested garden. Nicole thanks the limo driver with a generous tip after he empties the trunk from her luggage and places them in front of the door as instructed. Once he drives out the gates, Nicole fishes her keys out of her Coach bag and picks out the right one before sliding it through the keyhole. The lock, tough from years of disuse, takes some effort for it to finally turn. Pushing the heavy oak door open, she peers into the darkened foyer, listening for sounds of life even though she knows full well the house has been empty for a long time. Even so, she still remembers where the light switch is and flips it, allowing the yellow light to fill the huge hall. Some things can't be forgotten.

The mansion is at least sixty years old, but has been the property of the Douglases for twenty-three. Andrew was in love with the architecture, so he only renovated what was necessary for comfort's sake and preserved all that he could. At first Nicole was against it, but stepping into the house now, she's glad Andrew talked her out of making drastic changes. She rolls in her single piece of luggage and parks it by the vanity table at the entrance where she tosses the keys. She puts her purse down and takes off her Armani trench coat, resting it on her suitcase.

"Home sweet home," she bleakly sighs as she moves to the living room and flips another switch.

She analyzes the seven piece custard colored furniture set and eyes the auburn coffee table with seventeen years worth of dust on it. A manicured finger runs across the top of a side table, collecting a thick layer of filth, which she brushes off after inspecting it. She grabs a throw pillow from a nearby love seat and pats it down releasing a cloud of dust to float through the air and tickle her nose. Letting out a couple of sneezes, she drops the pillow back onto the couch and reprimands herself for not covering the furniture before she left.

Looking around the room, her eyes fall on the fireplace mantle where a few picture frames and albums are lined up, and she makes her way towards them. She remembers how excited Andrew was when they were first looking at the house. The fireplace in particular was what he loved most. He imagined it would hold the pictures of their growing family and had hoped it would soon be filled with photos of children, grandchildren, and maybe a few pets, too. She regrets having stopped with only four frames of their family standing, but that realization strengthens her motivation to find her daughter. With a heavy heart, she turns away and walks out of the room and heads up the grand staircase leading to the upper levels.

Before she finds the master bedroom, she opens another door and flips the light on to reveal a room covered with pastel pink and cream colors. The canopy bed was never made and the unfinished coloring books and crayons still lay strewn all over the floor. Jazz never used her desk to color, but she did use it for her puzzle sets. Nicole finds a large, renaissance French style doll house set up in the corner of the room by the ceiling to floor window, the miniature pieces of furniture piled high next to it. Nicole wonders if Jazz was remodeling before she… left. She turns towards the bed and picks up a stuffed animal Jazz had named Roger. It's a foot long, floppy lion with a missing eye and tongue sticking out, easily making it the silliest thing in this room. Holding the animal up, a nostalgic smile stretches on her lips. Jazz used to drag it along with her everywhere she went, so it surprises Nicole to find it forgotten on her bed. She sets the toy back down and leaves the room, turning out the light as she goes.

The tour of the house left her feeling guilty and on the brink of tears as she nears her bedroom. She opens the door and stares into the moonlit room trying to repress the many arguments she had with her late husband as their marriage drew to an end.

"It's been four years, Nicole," Andrew had said as he tried to keep his voice down. "She's your daughter and you act like you picked her off the streets."

"What do you want me to do, Andrew? I've tried everything with her. She hates me and I know you've been encouraging that!"

"That's not true, and keep your voice down," he had warned, "I don't want her hearing this."

"I don't care if she does; she's four, she won't even know what we're talking about." She had turned away from him and stormed into the bathroom.

"You keep underestimating her; _that's_ your problem. You never give her a chance and don't tell me otherwise," he argued in front of the bathroom door as he unbuttoned his shirt. "I've seen her try, and I've seen you ignore her. You can't use postpartum as an excuse anymore and you know it."

The door swung open and Nicole stood behind it glaring at her husband. "I've given her chances; she ends up either complaining or uninterested." She pulled the band out of her hair, letting her waves flow down to her shoulders.

"That's a lie. We both know she loves to hear you play the piano every Saturday. You know that she asked me why you never teach her? How the hell do you answer that?"

"Her fingers are too short, that's what you should have said." She walked past him, heading towards her vanity mirror.

"No they're not." Andrew followed her.

He took off his watch and tossed it on the table in front of her. He then grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. His eyes revealed just how troubled he was feeling.

"Nikki, something tells me this isn't about our daughter anymore."

"What the hell are you talking about?" She tried acting offended in hopes he won't find out about the affair.

"Our marriage. You're not the same woman I married. You used to be excited and charming; you loved everyone, especially children. When you were pregnant with Jazzy, you couldn't wait till the nursery was finished. What happened?"

She shook away his grip and spun around; she couldn't bear to look at him. "I was only twenty-three when I got pregnant, Andy. People change."

"We waited two years to start our family! You said you were ready!" Andrew barely managed to keep his voice low enough so as not to wake Jasmine. "I just don't understand how this could happen."

"It's a shame it did," he heard his wife murmur.

Nicole makes her way to the nightstand and pulls the top drawer open. In it lay an overturned frame that she picks up and flips over to stare at a picture of Andrew and herself on their wedding day. Suddenly, much overdue grief overwhelms her, forcing her to burst into tears that don't stop until she's fast asleep hours later.


	20. Chapter 20

Rays of early morning sunshine sneak into the room, gently waking Nicole from her slumber. She turns away from the window and opens her bloodshot, puffy eyes. She slowly gets up and takes a moment to remember where she is. Realizing she is still clutching the picture frame from last night, she puts it aside and rises. She makes a trip to the bathroom before heading back down the stairs to fetch her luggage still standing by the door.

She uses the service elevator to send them up to the second floor. Once she returns to her room, she calls a maid service explaining the six-bedroom, five-bathroom mansion hasn't been cleaned in a long while. She makes sure to stress the fact she needs the house in tiptop shape, giving them no more than a week to get the job done. After she's assured the cleaning service will be arriving that afternoon, she hangs up and prepares herself for a shower. Before she has a chance to step into the bathtub, her cell phone's muffled ringtone chimes from her purse. She puts on a silk robe before making her way towards the bag lying on the bed and pulling out the tiny gadget.

"Hello?"

"You were right about fifty-grand being an incentive," the voice she recognizes to belong to Nick starts. Instead of putting on the usual scowl when she receives a phone call from him, she nervously chews her lower lip. "So when will you be wiring the rest of the money?"

"As soon as you tell me what I want to hear," she replies, hiding her anxiety as well as she can.

"She's in Gotham. You got a pen and paper for her address?"

"Hang on."

Balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear, Nicole pulls out an electric organizer and opens the notes section. She taps the screen and signals him to start. She types down the address, drawing a box around it once she's done.

"By the way, do you want to know what else the brat, is up to these days?"

"What do you mean? She's not a stripper is she?" She asks slightly concerned the answer might be a "yes".

"No, but I bet that would have been interesting. She was admitted to Gotham Memorial a week ago." Her knees buckle from under her, forcing her to take a seat on the edge of the bed while fear steals away her voice. "She's fine though," Nick indifferently continues. "I'm looking at her file right now; it mentions something about a stabbing. They're not generous with the details, but you may want to bring a 'Get Well Soon' card with you."

He hears her let out a sigh of relief before talking into the speaker. "Anything else?"

"My price was for her location only. It'll cost you if you want more."

"Then forget it," she sighs, disappointed she can't learn more before the planned meeting.

"Remember, Nikki, I'll know if you talk," he warns before hanging up.

His threat brings back the fear she has worked hard to be freed from, but she knew the risk when she decided to search for Jazz. So it's no surprise she hopes this will be the last time she ever hears from him again.

* * *

The night before was rough on Terry. There were two bank robberies, one of them tragically ending with two dead cops and one civilian, six rape attempts, three Joker disturbances, and a three-man gang feud that almost got him a bullet in the eye. On his way home he had wondered if they were taking advantage of Batgirl's sudden disappearance, or if they had banded together to give him a night of hell.

Now he lies half awake in bed pressing the snooze button for the fifth time before dragging himself out and throwing a shirt over his bare chest. He makes himself a quick breakfast of cereal and milk and takes his time eating it. He knows his class isn't until another forty minutes; he has a habit of setting his alarm clock a good two hours ahead of time knowing he tends to snooze if off anyway. With the bowl still in hand, he moves to his modestly furnished living room where he notices a blanket bunched up on the couch.

Frowning, he makes his way towards it, lifting a corner only to find a pair of sock covered feet underneath. He tries the other end and finds Jazz's sleeping face wincing from the bright light. He takes a seat on the available space next to her head and gently shakes her awake. A quiet groan escapes her throat before she suddenly shoots up and grabs her shoulder.

"Sorry," Terry apologizes once he realizes he agitated her injury.

The sudden movement, however, shoots a sharp pain from the other wound on her stomach, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut and wait for the throbbing to subside. Once she lets out a sigh of relief and opens her eyes, she grabs the throw pillow beside Terry and retakes her previous position this time with her head resting on the pillow.

"Mind telling me why you're sleeping on my couch?" He asks as he watches her push her disheveled hair away from her face.

"Waiting for you," she sleepily mumbles. "You didn't answer your phone… door was open… you came in late."

"What did you need me for?"

"Nothing important," she replies a little less coherently.

"That brings me back to my first question: why. Are. You. Here?"

Her reply is a shrug. She doesn't want to admit that she simply needed the comforting company of a friend, even if he is the person she butts heads with more often than not.

He blows out a puff of air before asking another question. "How'd it go with your friend?"

"He's going to help us."

"That's good news, I guess." A short pause passes. "So how'd you two meet anyway?"

"I was twelve when I found him. I showed him my skill as a pickpocket, he liked it, and recruited me."

"T's?"

"No; he had his own gang of harmless thieves."

"Harmless? What, did they say _please_ before robbing a convenience store?" The comment gets him a painful pinch in the side.

"We only hit high priced corporations _after _closing time so people weren't losing their businesses or life's savings on our account. And if we ran into trouble, we either split or kicked ass."

"Who taught you to fight?" He asks as he runs a hand over a stubble covered cheek.

"Tank." She sees his brow rise with confusion from the corner of her eye. "The friend who's going to help," she clarifies.

"How long did he train you for?"

"Three years give or take."

"Am I going to be running into him at night?"

"No, not unless you were stabbed and admitted to Gotham Memorial."

"ER doctor?"

"Surgeon."

"He fixed you up?"

"Mostly stitching."

"You don't seem too surprised by this."

"That's cause you missed it."

"So you guys best friends or something?" He asks as he picks off a piece of stray lint from his shoulder.

"We haven't talked to each other in six years."

"That doesn't really answer my question."

She shrugs one shoulder. "I know him well enough to figure out where he was, so I guess he's the closest thing."

He rests his head back and stares up at the light fixture. "Are we waiting for a phone call from him?"

"Yeah, he'll get us some names then we hunt them down."

"There's no _we_ this time, Jazz; at least not until you're healed."

"Oh, for the love of-" she complains as she sits up. "I need my suit back, Ter. I feel fine and it doesn't hurt," she argues, clearly having forgotten her wake up call only moments ago.

"Barely a touch ends with you doubled over in pain. I'm not letting you out there in that kind of shape," Terry counters as he rises.

"Since when was asking questions like fighting off dregs?"

"Since people learned they could exercise their right to remain silent. It takes some persuasion for them to change their minds about that," he replies before picking up his empty bowl and heading back to the kitchen.

"I'm good at persuasion," she tries to negotiate.

He leans a hip against the counter and crosses his arms as he raises a brow at her. "No," he states before a grin crosses his face. "Hey, look at that, I wasn't persuaded. Guess it means you'll need to work on that."

Jazz rolls her eyes at him and sighs with defeat as she slumps deeper into the couch, while Terry straightens and heads back to his room to get dressed.

"You want me to drive you home?" She hears him offer from the bathroom as she fetches her shoes.

"No," she calls back, shoving a foot into the soft leather boot. His head pops out from the doorway, a toothbrush hanging on the corner of his mouth, as he quirks a brow at her.

"You sure?" He mumbles.

"I'm not bedridden, you know."

His head disappears before she hears the faucet run, a couple of clinks, and a coherent reply. "I'll drive you anyway," he says before scoffing as he emerges from his room with another grin on his face. "Another fail at convincing me. This isn't your day, is it," he quips before receiving another scowl from her.

"And yours will come, McGinnis," she threatens as she follows him to the door.

"Oooh, scary," he teases as he grabs his bag and keys before stepping out, while Jazz wonders why she ever thought his company would be consoling.

* * *

They arrive to her apartment building ten minutes later; quickly thanking him for the ride, she steps out of the car just in time to see a woman in a beige trench coat hurrying out of the building and quickly walking down the sidewalk. The collar of her coat is pulled up so Jazz isn't able to take a good look at her face. All she notices is the wavy black hair bouncing with every step she takes as she swiftly turns the corner and enters a nearby café.

"Something wrong?" Jazz hears Terry ask. Shaking her head, she closes the car door and walks up to the entrance as he pulls away.

She reaches her apartment door moments later and freezes when she finds a large, yellow envelope resting on her doorknob. She picks it up and flips in over to find "Jazzy" written on it. Her eyes narrow with suspicion as she reads over her name three more times as if she doesn't believe the letters written in black marker. No one she knows calls her Jazzy, and the realization reminds her of the woman with long, wavy hair she just saw. As best she could, she sprints down the hallway and back into the elevator.

Bursting out onto the sidewalk, she runs to the café she watched her disappear into earlier. The customers are surprised when Jazz suddenly rushes in, her wide eyes frantically searching their faces for familiarity. But when nothing turns up, she walks up to the cashier, ignoring the protest of the waiting customer.

"Have you seen someone with black hair and gray eyes walk in here like five minutes ago?"

"You're kidding, right?" Jazz frowns at the sixteen-year-old's blemish covered face. "Have you looked in a mirror?"

It takes everything in her not to jump the counter and punch the boy in the face. "_Another_ woman, twip. She looks like me."

"She walked out like two minutes ago. Lousy tipper, too." He picks up a cup and marks the order on it before handing it over to another employee.

"Which way?"

"I don't get paid to watch people leave."

Letting out a disappointed sigh, Jazz turns away. "Thanks."

She unlocks her apartment door and heads to her kitchen. She tosses her keys along with the envelope on the table and moves to her fridge. Pulling out a container full of strawberries, she takes a seat at the table and stares at the unopened envelope as she munches on the red fruit. Curiosity forces her to reach for it and pull on the metal tabs, flipping the lid open. Her hand reaches into it and pulls out a bunch of thin notebooks, which upon closer inspection she realizes are sheets of piano notes. Scowling at the odd package, she begins flipping through them.

There are classic works by Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven; some she has never heard before, others seem to automatically play in her head. The last set of sheets is actually a beginner's notebook. She flips it open and skims over it to find lessons starting with finger and hand positions, notes and chords as well as a bunch of exercises. She also finds a set of sheets that lack the composer's name but has music notes scribbled all over it. Jazz recognizes the handwriting: it's the same as on the envelope.

Putting them aside, she picks up the seemingly empty envelope and takes a look inside hoping to find a note that would explain this. Luckily, she pulls out a tiny sheet and finds matching handwriting.

'_There should be one set of music sheets for every birthday I missed.'_

Learning that the stranger was indeed her mother, she clenches her jaw with anger and crumples the paper before tossing it aside. She picks up the stack of music and counts seventeen sheets. She tries to hold on to the anger and resentment that she's supposed to feel, but she can't help but let out a sigh and pick up another strawberry.

Even though it was done in secret, it's still an attempt at forgiveness. The simple act of finding her and personally dropping off the package rather than mailing them shows the effort Nicole is putting in, so dismissing them is just cruel and unfair. It's the first step, but not the last. Jazz knows her mother has to try harder the next time she tries to sneak around her building in order to receive any kind of redemption. As she munches on another strawberry, Jazz flips open the beginner's book and reads away.


	21. Chapter 21

Ace's tags rattle against each other as he trots down the hall in search of the strange noise coming from some room he can't find. The sound grows louder as he approaches the music room in the east wing. The scent of the person in the room prompts him to start wagging his tail before he finds Jazz at the grand piano pressing down on a few keys, listening to the differences in tone. He sits in the doorway and slightly tilts his head waiting for her to acknowledge his presence.

But she is too engulfed in the music she is trying to play to notice the Dane mix watching her. She left the tarp partially covering the piano to muffle the notes so no one can hear her experiment. She had already learned which notes were which on the white keys and has moved on to figure out the flats from the sharps on the black keys. So far, she understands a black key can be played as a sharp or a flat depending on the chord that starts out the piece, which is the lesson.

Jazz stops with a finger on a white key when she finally noticed the tinkling tags approaching her. "What do you think?" She asks her only audience member with a smile. The reply is a vigorous tail wagging. "Liar; I suck."

With grace matched by a bull, Ace clumsily hops up onto the available space on the bench and gives Jazz a lick on the cheek. She lets out a little chuckle before wrapping an arm around him and scratches his ear. With her free hand, she continues slowly and carefully playing several notes, hoping to train her ears to notice the minute differences. She never notices Bruce occupy the same space Ace stood in a half hour earlier and watch her playing his grandfather's piano.

"Keep your fingers straight at the last joint," he corrects, startling her in the process. Caught in the act, she shoots up from her seat almost knocking Ace off with her and stares at Bruce with wide eyes.

"Sorry, I just… Um, sorry," she nervously stutters as she closes the notebook and lowers the lid, covering the ivory keys. "I know I'm not supposed to be in here; I just knew you had a piano… sorry," she continues as she replaces the tarp.

"Why?"

"Uh, I found – er – well, someone left me a few notebooks yesterday, and I thought maybe I could teach myself," she timidly replies as she collects her things.

"Who?" He calmly asks.

"I think-," she hesitates, worried she would sound crazy if she replies. "I think it was my mom."

His eyes twitch with interest as his mind races with thought, but he doesn't reveal them to Jazz. Instead, he approaches her before pulling the tarp off of the black antique, exposing the instrument in all its glory. He then opens the lid, and presses down on a key.

"The last joint should never bend," he proceeds to explain what he had meant earlier. Taking it as an inviting sign, Jazz watches his hand intently before mimicking it herself. "It should look almost like a bear claw so you have more control over the loudness." Her brows furrow with confusion, prompting him to continue. "Listen."

He presses down on the key and the note comes out loud and clear. He pushes down on the same key, but this time with a lot less force and the note comes out lower and softer.

"Changing the intensity in loudness gives the music a different dimension." She imitates him as a smile creeps onto her face. "Sit," he commands and she does. "Keep your back straight." With his cane, he taps her gently on the back, "feet flat on the floor. Put your fingers on the keys the way I showed you. Now bend your wrists up just a little bit. Keep that pose as you practice your playing."

"What do the pedals do?" She asks as she presses the C chord she just learned.

"Try them."

So she does, paying close attention to the changes they create. "How'd you learn all that?" She asks, looking up at the old man.

"Friends," is the simple response that reveals little of his worldly travels when he was her age.

"Do you play?"

"No," he replies before asking, "has your friend called yet?" Her fingers slip causing a note to break; she reluctantly shakes her head, the same answer she's been giving the last two days. "You should have given him a deadline."

Jazz rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I can see myself ordering him around after he tells me he helped save my life," she sarcastically quips.

"It was his job," Bruce replies, making Jazz scowl at him.

"He's still my friend, though."

Bruce sighs, letting the matter drop before asking an unexpected question, "did you make the lasagna in the fridge?"

"I brought it from home, so I didn't touch any of your pots and pans," she defensively replies, thinking she was in trouble.

"What else can you make?" He asks, not concerned about where or with what she made the food.

"A whole bunch of stuff; why?"

"Dinner is in an hour; you might as well make yourself useful since you're here."

"Uh, okay," she agrees with a raised brow, finding the request strange.

After replacing the lid over the keys, she follows him out of the music room and down to the spacious kitchen furnished with cooking appliances seldom used. He takes a seat at the kitchen island as he watches her move from cabinet to fridge to cabinet, scoping out the available ingredients. Deciding on a dish, she places a large pot of salted water on the stove; and as she waits for it boil, she starts opening cans of tuna and corn using a manual can opener.

"It would have been helpful if you had an electric one," she complains slightly wincing with pain as she struggles with them.

She opens a bag of frozen peas before dumping them along with the other ingredients into a second pot, drizzles some olive oil, and simmers the heat under it. Bruce watches her quietly, intrigued by how comfortable she seems as she dices the slippery sun dried tomatoes with precision. She sets the blade down halfway through chopping to dump the dry corkscrew noodles into the boiling water, stirs the pears and corn when they sizzle, and returns to dicing all in one fluid movement even though she only has one arm to depend on.

Aware of Bruce's eyes on her, Jazz's gaze flicks between him and the cutting board before asking, "what? Am I doing something wrong?"

He shakes his head. "You never mentioned you cooked."

"Oh," she softly replies, bringing eyes back down to the shriveled red fruit between her fingers.

His comment reminds her of how much she hid from them even though she's been on the team for six months now. She shrugs as she dumps the tomatoes into the pot of peas and corn.

"I'm not a fan of taking about myself," she mumbles, but Bruce knows it's code for fear of attachment.

It's something he can sympathize with; after all, he's had his fair share of failed relationships because of it.

"It gets easier," is all the reassurance he can offer her for now, but she's glad for it nonetheless.

She shows her gratitude with a small smile before she turns to check on the noodles. Finding them ready, she switches the heat off and drains them using a strainer set in the sink. Moving quickly yet gracefully, she empties a carton of whipping cream into the pea pot, stirs and seasons it with salt, pepper, and mixed herbs, the palm of her hand replacing a measuring spoon without sacrificing the accuracy.

Once the mixture starts bubbling, she stirs it into the pasta, which was returned to the larger pot. Finding a casserole dish in one of the cupboards underneath the counter, she wipes it down before spreading the tuna noodle mixture in it. Sprinkling some shredded cheese on top, she slides it into the oven to allow the cheese to melt. In the meantime, she cleans up the mess around her, returning the kitchen to its spotless condition.

Although Bruce has been quiet most of the time, Jazz never found it uncomfortable since she had a task to do; but now that there is nothing left to do but wait for the timer to go off, she finds the silence awkward. She clears her throat and looks down at the dishrag between her hands.

"I'm having trouble in school," she finds herself confiding for some reason.

That talk about opening up more might have had something to do with it. She steals a glance at Bruce and finds he had barely reacted to the statement.

"What kind of trouble?" He finally asks, reading into her intentions.

"I can't pick a major to switch to."

"Why are you switching?"

She shrugs. "Turns out I don't like psychology."

"Then drop out."

"No; I want to graduate, get a degree, a good job," she explains, before quietly adding, "I want to make my dad proud."

"What have you majored in before?" He asks, not minding the advisor role he has to play. He's done the same for Terry, so why not her?

"Business, government, communications; they were all a bust. The only good thing out of them was completing my core requirements."

"Have you tired any that relate to hobbies?"

"I don't think they have Bat studies as a major yet," she quips, earning a look of indifference. "No," she sighs. "You have something in mind?"

He shrugs. "Culinary arts? Restaurant management?"

She scrunches her face. "I like the whole cooking thing, but I'm not in love, if you catch my drift."

"If you want to dedicate your studies to something meaningful, then try figuring out what that is," Bruce replies, making her stop and think

He has a point; after all, isn't college all about finding who you are? Feeling somewhat reassured, she gives him a small smile just before the time goes off. She pulls out the bubbling casserole dish and sets it down on the counter before Terry, as if on cue, walks into the kitchen, freezing by the door when he notices the two occupants' eyes staring at him.

"Uh, hi?" He tentatively greets.

He expected Bruce to be taking his nap around now and Jazz anywhere but the manor. Quickly getting over his surprise, he moves to the utensil drawer and picks out a fork. After tossing his jacket and keys on one end of the counter, he takes a seat beside Bruce, pulls the dish towards him and digs in without waiting for an invitation. After a couple of mouthfuls, he realizes the two are still staring at him.

Switching his gaze between them, he swallows his bite. "What?"

"How is it?" Jazz asks.

"It's not burnt."

"Meaning?"

"It's good," he hesitantly replies raising a brow. "Am I missing something here?"

"Nope, enjoy." Giving him a quick smile, she leaves the kitchen and heads back to the music room.

"What's with her?" Terry turns to Bruce.

"What makes you think something's wrong?"

"I hate your secret fan club meetings sometimes," Terry complains, rolling his eyes. He returns to eating his dinner. "What do we have tonight?" He asks between mouthfuls.

"Teenagers are planning to raid a gas station, and security will unknowingly need some help transporting someone to Arkham. Eat slower or you'll give yourself indigestion."

"No time."

"Make time." Terry passes him a look before slowing down and actually chewing his food.


	22. Chapter 22

Her pen rapidly taps against her notebook with frustration as she stares at the university's brochure. She had drawn a line through every major she didn't like, but after a few minutes, more than half the brochure has been scratched out. She's hesitant about scratching off any more in fear that she'll never find a suitable area of study. Luckily, her ringing phone offers a much-needed distraction, and her arm gratefully shoots forward to fetch it.

"Hello?"

"Guess who?" A familiar and much anticipated voice asks. "I got what you need, but not what you want."

"What does that mean?"

"I'll explain over dinner tonight; I'll pick you up in twenty minutes," he coolly offers.

"Sorry, I don't have the time."

"Did you forget I could tell when you're lying?" The rhetorical question makes her smile.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Nowhere fancy, just our favorite diner."

"You mean _your_ favorite diner," she corrects before hearing him laugh.

"I know you liked it, too."

"Yeah, cause you always paid."

"And how does that not make it your favorite too?

"I see our point."

"So where can I pick you up from?"

"How bout I just meet you there since I know where it is?"

"You sure?"

"I wasn't paralyzed, Tank; I'll see you soon." She hangs up and throws her sling around her neck before making her way to the nearest subway station.

She takes her time walking to the diner so she could enjoy the chilly Gotham breeze blowing though the dimly lit streets, reminding her of the adventurous nights she shared with Henry and his gang almost seven years ago. She had met him by chance, and he had recruited her simply because she was small enough to crawl through air vents in the buildings they broke into. It didn't take long for the members of the gang to welcome her as a part of them, and even faster for Henry and Jazz to form a particularly special bond.

Henry had taught her how to defend herself, to fight back with savvy and efficiency even though size wasn't on her side at the time. Although they never shared names or details, Henry was one of the very few people she trusted at the time. Their three-year friendship out-lasted any other relationship she ever had, and she knows that if she hadn't moved, they never would have parted ways.

Reminiscing about the years they shared brings a bashful smile to her face. He was the best thing that ever happened to her and the only reason she was able to survive the last few years in group homes. She owes him more than her life, but she knows his easygoing nature would never allow her to pay him back. Given how meaningful their relationship was to her, Jazz mentally kicks herself for being too afraid to seek him out after her return to Gotham almost four years ago.

She was too attached to the new life she created, the one she desperately wished for, to accept the fact that Henry's friendship was much more valuable than these empty dreams. The realization hits her as she nears the diner marked with neon signs and a chalkboard with daily specials written on it. She breathes a sigh as she lets go of the regret and stares at the establishment where her best and only real friend waits for her, happy to finally be reunited. With her nose and cheeks turning a light shade of red from the cool breeze whipping around her, she opens the door and steps in, looking for that familiar twenty-six year old with the short, golden blond locks.

She finds him seated in the booth they always occupied back in the day, his arms spread across the back of the bench and blue eyes staring right at her with a smile on the lips framed by his goatee.

The way he stares at her, head slightly tilted and gaze once again running over her figure, makes her blush. It suddenly reminds her of the crush that was budding all those years ago, halted by the separation she had to suffer; but now she can't stop it from blooming despite the mental reprimand she gives herself as she makes her way over to him. It seems one can't simply outgrow a schoolgirl crush that easily.

"You're blushing," he states with a stretching smile.

"No I'm not," she counters. "There was a cold wind when I was walking over."

"Uh huh," he replies, unconvinced. "I already ordered for you," he explains when the waitress sets down two cups of coffee.

"Well looky here, if it isn't my two favorite people. How long's it been?" The waitress asks with a warm smile. Although the wrinkles on her pasty face have deepened over the years and streaks of white mixed with her usually short, red hair, Jazz and Henry still recognized her and returned the smile.

"Hey, Maggie," Jazz greets.

"Look at you all grown up," the waitress gushes as though Jazz is her own flesh and blood. "And you still hide your pretty face behind those bangs of yours," she lightly scolds, noting the dark bangs sweeping across Jazz's face and shading her eyes. "How many times have I told you to pin those back, young lady?"

"Enough times to ignore it," she replies still smiling.

"I see you still manage to get yourself in trouble," Maggie says on a more serious note as she nods to the sling.

"Oh, no; it's nothing; just a sprain." Jazz knows it's easier to fool Maggie than Henry, so she isn't surprised when she watches her face relax with reassurance.

"I guess I don't have to tell you to be more careful next time; I don't want to sound like a parrot."

"You never do."

"You're food'll be ready in about ten minutes, hon," she announces with a smile before walking away to tend to another table.

"I can't believe she still remembers us," Jazz confesses with her eyes still on their old friend.

"Who could forget you?" Henry replies, making Jazz raise a brow at her friend.

"What?"

"You stood out as a kid; don't tell me you never realized that," he elaborates. "What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing," she quickly replies as she pours some cream into her coffee.

He lowers his arms and rests his elbows on the edge of the table as he watches her pour some cream into his own mug. She still remembers how many packets of Sweet-and-Low he has with his cup: one and a half. After adding his fake sugar, she pours the rest into her own coffee and mixes both mugs.

"Thanks," he says after she taps the spoon a couple of times on the rim of his mug. He takes a careful sip and smiles with nostalgia. "Just like old times."

"Speaking of old times, how are the guys?" It happened that she was the only girl in their close-knit gang of thieves.

"All over the place doing what they do best." She raises a skeptical brow. "Technically their talents are legal."

Although still hesitant, she nods with approval as she remembers the talents that made each one of them unique. Other than being small, Jazz shined when it came to pickpocketing, while Henry had the head for planning and the endless connections he built in the criminal world.

"We should put together some kind of reunion," he goes on to say. "It would be sweet once they know you still exist."

"I thought you kept tabs on me after our unfortunate parting."

"They didn't, and they didn't know I did."

"Why didn't you tell them?"

He shrugs. "Wouldn't have mattered anyway. We parted ways a month after you were gone."

"How come?"

"Too many differences," he replies with a shrug. "God, I just want to see the look on Keys' face when he sees you," he adds. Keys was one of his oldest and best friends; he also helped Henry put the group together back when they had first met. "He was so pissed when you got caught. He actually planned to spring you out; but I managed to talk him out of it, since it was too risky and we didn't have the means to do so."

"What about the triplets?" She asks, referring to the set of identical triplets, each with their own unique talent.

"Two of them are married believe it or not."

"No way! Aren't they like twenty-four though?"

"Yup; one of them has a kid on the way."

"Wow; good for them," Jazz says with a smile.

"Alright, kids," Maggie returns with two plates of food. "Scrambled eggs with turkey sausage and white toast for the blond gentleman, and sunny-side up with bacon and pancakes for the lovely lady." She sets the food down and gives them a smile. "I saved the last slice of banana cream pie for you to share once you're done," she adds with a wink before walking away.

"I love her," Jazz comments out loud making Henry chuckle. He reaches for the salt and pepper shakers and sprinkles them first over Jazz's food then on his.

They eat in silence for a few minutes before Henry clears his throat. "I only have one name," he quietly explains as he stares at his half eaten eggs. Jazz looks up at him waiting for him to continue. "Two people were involved in the accident, but they didn't plan it."

"How sure are you?"

"My sources are never wrong," he states looking at her. "I'm sorry I couldn't find anything else."

"No, don't be. What you have is more than enough; trust me."

Giving her a nod, he continues. "One of them is Max Hemming, but before you ask, I have no idea where he is. Whoever set this up knew what they were doing and left no traces behind."

"We can track him, don't worry."

"_We?_" Henry inquires with a raised brow.

"My friend."

"That's not what I meant. There's no _we, _Jazz, it's just the police. This is too dangerous for you."

"Are you seriously giving me this lecture?" She asks clearly annoyed.

"Don't pull off that heroics shit on me. I don't want you putting yourself in harm's way especially in your condition," he nods in her shoulder's direction.

"God, are you listening to yourself? I'm not twelve anymore; I know the risks and I'm willing to take them." She manages to keep her voice down so as not to attract any attention, but her glare only intensifies surprising her old time friend. "You sound just like him," she adds, remembering the arguments she has had with Terry over the same issue. "I was hoping to get a little more support from you."

After studying each others' features, Henry finally gives in, not because of her compelling argument, which hasn't affected his decision in the least, but because he doesn't want to let her down. He always had faith in her, so there is no reason to doubt her now. Letting out a defeated sigh, he eases into the bench.

"I got your back. If you need me for anything, just call."

Relieved, she gives him a thankful smile. "This means a lot to me, Henry."

"Just promise you'll be careful," he adds without hiding the worry in his eyes.

"How many times have you said that to me? Like a hundred and three?" She jokes, lightening the mood once more.

"They go in one ear and out the other with you. I don't know why I even waste my breath," he replies rolling his eyes.

They talk and eat for the next two and a half hours, occasionally attracting curious looks when they burst into laughter from stories they revisit. She forgot just how easy it is to be around her friend, and she's grateful fate has brought them back together. Another reason to love Gotham that much more. Maggie picks up their empty plates and serves them the single slice of pie she promised, placing it in the middle of the table along with two forks.

"Thanks, Maggie," Henry says with a never-ending smile.

"Best way to thank me is with a generous tip, hon," she jokes giving him a wink as she walks away.

As Jazz picks up her fork, a content smile draws her lips back before she digs into the crusty dessert. "What's that grin about?" Henry asks as he imitates Jazz and cuts out a bite size piece.

"Just remembering how this became a weird tradition."

"People having dinner or the pie thing?" Jazz rolls her eyes at his lame response. "Yeah, I remember too."

"After my first heist."

"I took you out to eat," Henry continues for her.

"We had breakfast at three in the morning."

"I thought I would treat you to a slice of pie."

"We both liked banana, but there was only one slice left."

"And you shared it with me," Henry finishes giving her a small but warm smile, making her blush again. "Gonna blame that one on the cold breeze again?" He asks just when she turns away in hopes to hide her face.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything!" He protests still grinning. "But care to tell me why you keep turning a lovely red every time I do talk?"

"I do not," she scowls at him.

"Yeah you do. See! Right there; red again."

"That's cause you're pissing me off."

Rolling his head to the side, he scoffs. "We've had fights way worse than this, but you always kept your cool like a pro regardless of how pissed you got. This though, isn't even an argument."

"What are you expecting me to say then?"

He opens his mouth to say something, but changing his mind, he quickly closes it a second later and rolls his eyes. "Never mind," he mutters.

"No, say what you wanted to say."

He hesitates before complying. "I expected you to speak your mind, not hide like a coward. I don't see a reason for you to start keeping secrets from me now."

"Who said I'm keeping secrets?"

"Jazz," he lightly scolds, watching her take a bite of pie. "I have an idea why you blush so much; I was just hoping you could confirm it," he adds.

"Oh, yeah? Enlighten me," she challenges with a smirk.

But her smile instantly disappears when he reaches across the table and takes her hand in his. He flips it palm side up and begins slowly stroking it in a number eight pattern. She isn't sure if it was the fact that _Henry_ is the one stroking her or the actual act itself that brings back the fluttering feeling in her stomach.

He isn't looking at her as he continues to stroke her palm. "I'm assuming, actually more like hoping, you would be blushing meaning my hunch about you having a little crush on me is right. What would be interesting is to see you prove me wrong."

He looks up at her and a victorious grin spreads across his face. Her face, just as he predicted, turns a flattering shade of red before she tries hiding it by looking away. She pulls her hand away and hides it under the table, inconspicuously touching the palm he caressed seconds ago.

"What are you embarrassed about?" He asks leaning back and spreading his arms across the back of the bench.

"Why would you want me to confess to something like that?" She asks, still shying away from him. She wishes there was somewhere to just hide and get away from those charming blue eyes.

"I've never known you to act like this, Jazz," Henry comments, surprisingly with a little concern. "You've changed; no, something's changed and I'm not sure what."

"I think dinner's over now," she quietly states. She reaches for her money but Henry raises a hand in protest.

"Let's keep up with tradition." He slides his card in the built in slot and watches his friend stand before rushing to the door. "Woah, hold up," he calls after her and quickly follows suit.

He grabs her elbow right after they step out of the diner, forcing her stop. To keep the wind from stealing the warmth from her jacket, she wraps her good arm around herself, hoping the evening will end without incident. Her eyes blankly stare in the direction of her apartment; but Henry, too stubborn to let the strange behavior go, lifts her chin with a finger and brings her gaze to lock with his.

"You know what I liked most about you?" He asks, hoping the self-disclosure will repair the damage the earlier comment might have inflicted. "That unforgettable attitude of yours. You used to tell it like it was without sugar coating anything. But that was the case when it came to anyone who wasn't you. In the three years we were together, you never let your guard down, and given the time, I didn't let it bother me. But now I know who you are and I understand why you were so bottled up, so you don't need to hide anymore. Whatever it is, I won't let it drive me away."A hand gently cups her cheek filling her with the reassurance she's been starved of for so long. As though sensing the effect his touch has on her, he pulls her closer and whispers, "I'm never leaving you again, Jazz."

They stand in the cold wind for a moment, gazing at one another before Jazz breaks the silence with a question. "Do you want to walk me home?"


	23. Chapter 23

With a relieved smile, Henry allows Jazz to lead the way. As they slowly head down the sidewalk, Jazz gently nudges him with a shoulder and smiles up at him, prompting him to gladly wraps an arm around her and pull her close to keep her warm. Content with the silence only friends find comfortable, they fall in step with each other, the corners of their eyes stealing glimpses now and again.

"Chicago sucked, you know," Jazz confesses, comfort radiating through her because of Henry's embrace.

"That's not what I heard," he replies, making her raise a brow. "Apparently you earned a reputation of being an expert lock picker," he explains, making a modest grin stretch on her face.

"Yeah, but I didn't know anyone worth sharing the spoils with," she replies.

"Couldn't meet anyone as awesome as me?" He quips, making her chuckle. "So why'd you screw it up over there?" He asks on a more serious note and causing her eyes to lower to the ground.

"Like you don't know," she mutters, figuring if Henry can find out so much about her in a city a thousand miles away, then he must know the full story.

Realizing Jazz is smarter than he gives her credit for sometimes, he lets a sigh escape him. "They were a nice couple, you know," he replies.

"No they weren't. They pitied me, thinking adopting the troubled teen and turning her into a model citizen was doing me a favor. I wasn't a charity case."

"You had a chance a lot of kids would have killed for."

She shakes her head. "Not me. I'd rather hoof it in another orphanage than be a missionary couple's project. What about you? Why'd you ditch Gotham after my arrest?"

He kneads the back of his neck with his free hand as he groans in reply. "Keys and I had a falling out," he hesitantly explains, bringing his arm down and stuffing his hand in a pocket.

"What?" Jazz asks with surprise. Keys and Henry had known each other years before she met them, so she never expected the two to end up fighting. "What happened?"

"Remember how I said he was planning on springing you out?"

"Yeah."

"Uh, well, he was more than ready to do it," Henry continues, wincing at the memory of the fight. "It earned me a black eye, but I managed to talk him out of it."

"Woah," she quietly gasps, disbelieving the effect the arrest had on Keys, the one person who seemed indifferent about what happened to her.

"With the gang split up and at each others' throats, I knew we were done. My dad lived in Bedford at the time, so I decided to move in with him after college."

"What brought you back?"

A bashful grin crosses his lips. "I – uh – met someone."

"You are just a bag full of surprises," she replies with an amused grin.

"Well, you're gonna love this cause I got a few more. We met in my capstone class and I applied to St. Michael's School of Medicine because of her."

"That serious?"

He shakes his head. "Way more than that. We – uh – got engaged couple years ago." He watches her eyes grow with surprise. "Told you."

"So what happened?"

"My lab partner happened," he replies, and she winces on his behalf.

"She cheated on you?"

"Pretty much. They dropped out of med school and moved to California last year."

"So, uh, are you okay?" She carefully asks.

He looks down at her with warm eyes that make her blush again. "More than okay," he replies, smiling at her reaction and pulling her closer.

However, before anything else could be said, Jazz hears a faint meow that grabs her attention when they cross by a dark alley. She stops to listen more carefully and when the unmistakable sound repeats, she leaves Henry's side to investigate. She disappears into the shadows for a moment before reappearing with a grin on her face and a kitten cradled in her arms. Rolling his eyes at her, Henry walks up to her side.

"You can't be serious," he starts, making her giggle.

"Oh come on, at least this time I'm not going to beg you to take him," she argues, reminding him of the time when she found a stray cat scavenging for food by the orphanage.

She took it upon herself to sneak it food every night, and when the caretaker realized what Jazz was doing, she threatened to call animal control. Desperate to save it, she begged Henry to take it in, but he refused; luckily though, Keys came to the rescue and adopted the black cat more for Jazz's sake than the feline's. This time though, she'll be able to rescue the scrawny tabby herself.

"You can't keep him, Jazz," Henry starts.

"Says who?" She asks as she scratches the top of the kitten's head.

"It's a stray, probably flea bitten and mangy," he counters, making it clear he's not a cat person.

"The more reason to bring him with me. I mean, look at him, Henry; he needs me," she tries convincing him.

It's hard not to pity the emaciated kitten in her arms; so knowing he won't be winning this argument, he sighs and says, "at least take him to the vet first."

Smiling with glee, she takes his hand and pulls him across the street. "Come on, I know a 24 hour one around the corner."

* * *

It's a ten-minute walk to the busy vet's office, and with the kitten safely tucked in Jazz's jacket, the two approach the front desk.

"Evening," Henry starts.

"How can I help you?" The receptionist dressed in a pair of puppy covered scrubs asks.

"We got a sick cat here."

"Well you've come to the right place," she replies with a tired smile. She pushes away a strand of brown hair as she turns to her monitor. "Have you been here before?"

"No."

"Ok, so we'll start a new file on the little critter. Here's some paper work for you to fill out, but can I have your name?"

"She's the owner, so Jasmine Douglas," Henry answers as he nods in his friend's direction, who is preoccupied with soothing the kitten.

"And the cat's name?" The receptionist asks lifting her surprised brown eyes to stare at Jazz.

"Uh," Henry stutters, turning to Jazz.

"Zee," she quickly replies, looking up. "He's a stray but I'm keeping him."

Not surprised by Jazz's decision, the brunette smiles at her as she processes the information in her computer.

It wasn't long before they were called to an examination room to meet with Dr. Wikard, a tall, moustache-wearing man in his mid-fifties. A few hours later, an upper respiratory infection is diagnosed and a prescription is made out along with instructions to care for him.

"What are you studying, by the way?" Dr. Wikard asks Jazz before they have a chance to leave the exam room.

"Me?" Jazz asks surprised by the question. "I'm kind of undecided."

"Ever thought about veterinary sciences?" He asks with a smile that seems familiar.

"Uh, why?" She stutters, her eyes narrowing in thought as she tries to remember if she knows him.

"Just a thought," is the nonchalant response. "Nothing to lose if you look into it. You go to Gotham State?" She nods once. "If you're interested in checking out a program, just come by my office; here's my card." He adds with a smile.

Taking the card from his hand she returns a careful smile. "Um, thanks. We pay up front, right?"

"You know what, don't worry about it. Just promise me you'll look into the program."

"Seriously?"

"The tech up front already knows; she also has the prescription ready. I'll see you next week for a follow up." He holds the door open for the two confused clients.

"Um, yeah," Jazz hesitantly replies before walking out.

When she goes to pick up the medicine at the front desk, Henry's wandering eyes find a small plaque hanging behind the nurse's desk which reads: _"A plaque of appreciation to the generous donation made by World Chemistry, without which we cannot continue saving the lives of beloved pets."_ Under the plaque hangs a bulletin board over flowing with papers, but in one corner is a pinned picture partly covered by a blood donation flier.

"Can I look at that picture over there?" Henry asks the receptionist.

"Oh that?" She takes it down and hands it over. "Oh wow, I forgot that was even there." Taking a closer look, Henry recognizes the three people in the old photo. "I bet you're too young to recognize-"

"That's Andrew Douglas and Ethan Garvin," he interrupts.

Jazz whips her head around at the mention of her father's name and stares at the picture in Henry's hands. It's an old picture of Andrew, Ethan and Dr. Wikard standing by the newly erected plaque.

"I'm surprised you know them," the nurse smiles. "But I'm sure you do, Miss Douglas." Jazz turns to the examination room where Dr. Wikard still stands at the door, smiling at her.

"We're the only privately owned vet in Gotham that treats strays for free, not to mention cut the cost for families who can't afford the bills. Your father donated two million dollars to keep us from going bankrupt. It was more than enough to keep the business going, so you could imagine how devastated we were when we found out that… you know. I'm sorry it happened."

A moment of silence follows, one filled with respect and gratitude.

"You're always welcome here, hon," the receptionist continues when Jazz turns back to her. "We'll see you next week." Saying their last good-byes, they head out and reach her apartment in a few minutes.

"Never realized you were so popular," Henry starts, taking his jacket off and making himself comfortable on her couch. Jazz lays Zee down on his lap despite his objection and makes her way to her room.

"And I did?" She calls from her room, "anyway, thanks for tagging along."

"No need for that," he replies, staring down at the kitten curled on his lap. Hearing him purr so contently makes it hard for him not to scratch the tiny head with a finger.

"I knew you liked him," Jazz says after emerging from the room.

He rolls his eyes at her grinning face. "Don't get used to it. It's just the doctor in me sympathizing with the ill."

"Sure," she unconvincingly replies as she takes a seat beside him. She watches him pet the cat, moving his finger from the top of the cat's head to his cheek and smiling when Zee purrs louder.

"So – uh – you think the vet was right?" She quickly asks, eyes fixed on the purring kitten.

"About the infection? It's unethical for me to diagnose a cat."

"Henry," she scolds.

"Where'd your sense of humor go?" He scowls before sighing. "Yes, I think you should do it. You said you've been wanting to change your major, so why not vet school?"

She gives it some thought, figuring majoring in biology won't push her graduation date back and she'll be able to start Gotham U's veterinary science program the fall after graduation. Her eyes move to the cat snoozing on Henry's lap, smiling when his seemingly content face warms her with optimism.

"You made up your mind?" Henry asks, bringing her attention back.

"I did," she replies, picking her cat up and cradling him in her arms.

"Good," he smiles before catching a glimpse of the time. "Well, I hate to end the evening, but my shift starts in six hours. You busy tomorrow night?" He asks as he rises.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" He raises a skeptical brow.

"Don't ask. I'll let you know around seven."

"That's fine." He bends down and lifts her chin with a finger before placing a gentle peck on her cheek. Pulling away, a charming smile spreads across his face. "Night," he whispers, while caressing her cheek with a thumb before he lets go of her.

Blushing for the last time that night, she grins as she watches him head out the apartment, excitedly anticipating the next time they will get to see each other.


	24. Chapter 24

"Have you heard from Jazz yet?" Terry asks his mentor as he makes his way down the steps into the cave.

"No, why?" Bruce asks lifting his head from the workbench. He is busy putting the finishing touches on Jazz's suit; she had repaired it to the best of her ability before handing it to Bruce for upgrades.

"Cause without her secret friend's help, we can't move forward with this case," he replies. It's clear he's irked for being in the dark regarding Jazz's friend, and Bruce knows it.

"Why are you so worried?"

"I'm not worried," Terry shrugs, holding hands behind his back. "I mean, it's been four days since she's heard from him, that's all."

Bruce lets out a sigh and turns back to his work. He's too old to get mixed up in this. "If you're so concerned, just call her."

"Like that'll work," Terry scoffs. After a moment of silent thought, he begins to pace a little. "Who is this guy anyway?" He thinks aloud, sending Bruce's eyes into an exasperated roll. "I mean has she told you anything about him?"

"Why are you asking me?" Bruce asks, clearly annoyed.

"Because she supposedly tells you everything, whereas I only find out secrets when she's in a hospital bed."

"Still not my problem."

Rolling his eyes, Terry moves to the console and seats himself in the available chair. "What was the guy's name again?"

"Why?"

"Just want to find out who his sources could be."

"Let it go."

"There's no harm in it, you know."

"McGinnis," Bruce scolds.

"Bruce," Terry spins the chair to scowl at him.

"Why do you care so much?"

"There's nothing wrong with checking this guy out. I mean, who knows what he used to do so he could pay for med school," Terry replies as he faces the screen again. "So what's the name?"

"Mind your own business," Bruce replies, making his protégé groan.

"I miss the suspicious part of you that trusts nothing."

Bruce shoots a scowl his way before saying, "if you want something to do, McGinnis, the weapons closet needs organizing."

Terry groans as he rests a cheek on a propped fist, hoping Bruce isn't serious about the assigned chore. With his mind racing with case details, he decides to pull up all the information he has gathered so far in hopes to find something he missed; it wouldn't be the first time it's happened. Everything he's found out would easily be considered circumstantial. Labeling a freak accident as murder is a long stretch, especially when the CSU reports claim no foul play.

"Wait," he frowns as he reads the report over.

"What is it?" Bruce asks when he hears Terry's mumblings.

"CSU reports; you'd think a team trained to be thorough would at least have discovered the brake line damage," he explains without turning. "But it hasn't been mentioned in here, not even as parts damaged on impact." Bruce lifts his head with curiosity. "You think someone was hired on the inside to fudge the reports?" Terry asks, this time facing his mentor.

"That would take too much work. CSU department doesn't hire anyone off the streets. If Nick wanted Andrew out of the way, he would want to do it quickly."

"And what's quicker than a bribe?" Terry asks, connecting another piece of the puzzle. He turns back to the console looking for the person who filed the report. "Edward Bolin," he reads aloud before running a search on him. "Either this guy is new to the crime business, or he's plain stupid," he announces after reading the results. Bruce makes his way to Terry's side to read the information. "Two days after the report was filed and the case closed, he quits and jumps a plane to the Caribbean's. Correct me if I'm wrong, but a guy working as a crime scene tech shouldn't be making enough to retire by the ripe old age of thirty-one. Why didn't Barbara notice this?"

"You'll have to ask her yourself," Bruce replies, his curiosity piqued.

"Again?" Terry winces at the suggestion. "Her patience does have a limit you know," he sighs as he rises. "Just don't turn stingy if I call for bail money."

* * *

"Here's a first," Terry starts when he finds Barbara seated in a diner's booth with her face buried in a file as she waits for her food to arrive. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to dodge me." Slipping into the bench across from her, Terry flashes a grin as Barbara closes the file and meets his gaze.

"Too dense to take a hint?" She retorts.

"Aw, come on; I know you love it when I drop by unannounced," he jokes with a wider smile.

"What can I get you, sir?" A waitress suddenly asks, seemingly coming out of nowhere.

"Nothing for me, thanks."

"Uninviting yourself from lunch?" Barbara asks once the waitress leaves them.

"I already ate."

"Doubt that. Bruce tells me everything."

"Doubt that," Terry smirks.

"What do you need?"

"You remember Edward Bolin?"

"CSU tech who wrote the report," she replies.

"You know he quit a few days after filing it, right?"

"I had to sign his papers."

"Why didn't you stop him?" Terry asked, surprised by her calm demeanor.

"Because I was busy dealing with post Batman crises; I didn't realize my mistake until it was too late. Even then, I didn't have the time or resources to reopen the case."

"Okay, but now you do, right?"

"Not that easy, kid. The trail has been cold a long time; our priorities won't let us move that fast. It'll take a while for us to even catch up to what you've got."

"So what now?" He sighs, leaning back in his seat.

"If you can find something fresh and inadmissible, it'll heat things up and the bump it up the priority list."

"Like what?"

"Best bet right now is a confession."

"Don't put your money on it."

"Actually, mine is on the next best thing." His brows quirk with curiosity. "Batman."

"He's not as lucky as you think."

"Yet he seldom loses," Barbara replies, making him grin. "You need some advice, kid? Take a detective's protocol and throw it out the window."

"But-" he starts to protest before Barbara cuts him off.

"The courts aren't your problem; they're mine, and I'm not worried at this point. Just do your job and I'll manage the rest," she reassures.

"Wow, wish I could have recorded that," Terry quips, surprised by how much Barbara is encouraging vigilantism.

"You know you wouldn't have gotten away with it," she replies, making him grin again. "Besides, don't think this is a habit for me."

"A guy could dream," he sighs. "Anyway, I'll keep you posted."

"Now _that_ I'll never believe," she quips, making him scoff with laughter.

* * *

There is a new scent in the cave that Ace can't ignore, and it doesn't take him much to find who the newcomer is. His nose points him to the workbench where he finds a piled up blanket with a tail sticking out of it. For reasons he can only blame on his species, he lunges at the blanket; but before his teeth sink into it, a firm hand grabs his collar, pulls him back, and pins him to the ground. Surprised, Ace tries to wiggle free but another hand holds down his hips. Forced to lie on his side, his instincts take over and he surrenders to the forceful hands. His brown eyes look up to find Jazz glaring at him, clearly unhappy with the way he tried to make a meal out of her pet.

"Don't even think about messing with Zee, got it?" From her tone, he could tell she didn't appreciate the lunge; so, as an apology, Ace doesn't stir from his place even after Jazz lets go.

"What's going on?" Terry had walked into the cave right when Jazz caught the guilty dog.

"He almost ate Zee," she explains with her eyes still glued on Ace. Thinking he has been punished long enough, she gives him a pat on the head, letting him know he's been forgiven.

"Uh, who's Zee?" He asks watching Ace leave up the stairs to fetch his master.

"My cat." Jazz replies as she checks on the kitten hidden in the blanket.

"Since when?"

"Last night." Raising a brow at her, he walks up to her side to find the gray tabby snoozing in the wool blanket.

"So this is what you do when you're out of commission."

"Funny, McGinnis."

"What are you doing down here anyway?"

"Helping out with paperwork," she replies, shifting her gaze elsewhere and making Terry frown with suspicion.

"Paperwork?" he asks with a raised brow.

"Yeah, paperwork," she repeats, moving to the console.

"Fine, whatever," he sighs, letting the matter drop. "Have you heard from Tank yet?"

"No, nothing yet," she lies. "Anyway, I have to go," she says, grabbing her bag and moving back to the table where her kitten is sleeping.

"Hey," Terry calls after her before she can make her way up the stairs. She doesn't turn to look at him, but he continues anyway. "I know this is going to sound weird, but are you sure we can trust your friend?"

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?" She asks, this time stopping to face him.

"You don't even know his real name."

"How about you worry about your own business and I'll worry about my friends," she snaps, both angry and surprised by his comment.

She expected he would trust her judgment, but given the tension between them over the last seven months, his doubt shouldn't have been so shocking. Too stubborn to see the other's perspective, they throw icy glares at each other before Jazz storms up the stairs and out the cave.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Terry moves to the console to start the nightly surveillance. After compiling a series of necessary stops, he starts making his way to an alcove to change, but stops short when he notices something missing from the workbench: Jazz's suit. Frowning, he turns to the cases that house the suits, but doesn't find it there either. He knows Bruce never misplaces anything, so after cursing under his breath, he rushes to change into his suit and find his hotheaded partner before she does anything stupid.


	25. Chapter 25

Eerie silence is what makes the nightwalker somewhat nervous. Having just come out of a poker game that didn't go as he hoped, he tries finding his way back home; but downing more than his share of whisky to drown the misery of losing so much money has him wobbling and reaching for anything within arms length to keep him from toppling over. At least he had enough sense to leave before using his wife as payment. Inebriated, nervous, and regretful, the lanky, balding man accidentally stumbles into a dark alley between two buildings, thinking it would lead him to his street. He never notices the shadow following him since he left the game. The dark figure has been gracefully moving from one building to the next before stopping over the alley he walked into. With eyes glued on him, she silently drops to the ground and makes sure the shadows completely conceal her from being found out too soon.

Her white eyes are the only hints of her presence as they fixate on the unstable man who finally realizes his mistake. As Max Hemming turns to leave, he suddenly becomes aware of the eyes, and his body stiffens with both fear and surprise. Before he can even twitch, an arm shoots forward grabbing him by the collar, and his feet leave the ground as Batgirl takes to the air. When they reach the roof of an adjacent building, she tosses the man to the floor and crouches on the ledge, the darkness of the night mixed with the glare of her eyes adds a degree of intimidation to her presence.

"Andrew Douglas was killed seventeen years ago. Who was responsible?" She asks, getting straight to the paint.

"W-what?" Max stammers too afraid to even stand. Impatient and unsympathetic to his state, she grabs him by the collar of his shirt, pulls him up and spins to dangle him over the edge.

"Talk," she orders.

"Oh God!" He gasps with fear, not believing how dangerous his night turned out to be. "I-I-I don't know who-"

Angry at the fact this dreg doesn't even recognize the name of the man he helped kill, Batgirl begins loosening her grip. Realizing he's about to fall, a yelp of fear escapes his throat as he grabs onto her extended arm.

"Remember now?" She asks, having grown beyond irritated.

"W-world Chemistry, r-right?" He stutters, his eyes switching between her face and the twenty-story drop. "Uh, God jeez – uh," he desperately searches his memory bank for the name that will save his life. "Jimmy! J-Jimmy Falon," he finally remembers with relief. "P-p-please, let me go."

The name, however, forces her eyes to narrow with recognition: James Falon is Thorn's real name.

"Thorn?" She asks to confirm the realization.

"Y-yeah, that's him," he replies.

"Son of a bitch," she growls under her breath. A few days ago, Thorn had managed to get himself out of police custody, no doubt by help from powerful and potential employers. "Where is he?"

"I-I don't know! I swear! We haven't talked since the job was done and I got my cut."

"Your cut?" She hisses, her jaw clenching with rage.

Her father's life was just a paycheck to him, one he probably lost in a matter of hours at a casino; she's tempted to toss him just for that sleazy comment, but she has more questions that need to be answered.

Feeling his body start to shake with fright, she asks the next one. "How was it planned?"

"He- he drove the truck after cutting the brake lines; I called f-from a pay phone to let him know when t-to cross the intersection and called the boss when the job was done! Please, I'm afraid of heights!" He pleads before daring to look down again.

Batgirl knows there's more information to fish out, but before she could further interrogate him, Batman suddenly intervenes.

"Put him down, now," he orders as he approaches her, glad he got there in time.

"Thank God! I've never been so happy to see you, Batman!" Max cries out with relief.

Batgirl, however, barely acknowledges him. She gives him an indifferent look from the corner of her eye before turning back to glare at the man still dangling from her arm.

Batman takes another step, getting close enough to whisper in her ear, "Jazz, don't do anything stupid."

Ignoring his warning, she unexpectedly lets go of Max, sending him screaming as he careens to the ground. Horrified, Batman is about to jump after him, but Batgirl stops him with an extended arm, blocking his path. That's when he notices the end of a grapple snagged to Max's pants and tied to the escape ladder, stopping him with a grunt two stories above the ground that would have flattened him.

"OK! OK!" Max yells, "We were hired by someone working for World Chemistry! I never met him, but Jimmy did once! That's all I know! I swear!" Filled with fear and whiskey, Max vomits the contents in his stomach and spits out the lingering taste.

"Name?" Batgirl demands.

"Jimmy never told me!"

"Right," she says more to herself before turning away from the ledge.

"Hey! Aren't you going to let me down?" He calls when she disappears from his view.

She fires a batarang to cut the line, causing him fall the last two stories. They hear a sickening snap before a cry of pain, but Batgirl doesn't care to check on him. With the way he spoke of her father, she believes he deserves the injury. Batman on the other hand, roughly grabs her by the arm stopping her from leaving as he checks on Max curled up in pain. He turns to glare at his partner, clearly furious about what has just happened.

"Cave, now," he hisses before she shakes away his grip and silently walks away from him. He glides down to help the injured man.

"You broke my leg, you bitch!" Max yells up.

"I suggest you keep your mouth shut before you end up in a neck brace," Batman warns as he helps Max to his feet.

* * *

Batgirl's bike comes to a stop with a sharp skid before she jumps off and storms toward the medical station. As she rips off her gloves and mask, Batman lands the Batmobile and hops out before following her, equally fumed. Jazz opens a cabinet to grab sheets of gauze and medical tape. She undresses the top half of her suit and tosses it on the table before she starts undoing the old bandages wrapped around her shoulder.

"You better have a damn good reason for pulling off that shit tonight!" Terry yells, obviously furious over what just happened.

"Who are you to say that?" She shoots back. "How else would _you_ have handled it?"

"By not throwing him over the fucking edge! What you did was uncalled for; you could have killed him!"

"But I didn't, so you can stop huffing and puffing," she replies as she grabs the bottle of antiseptic.

Irritated by her dismissal, he grabs her by the elbow, forcing her to turn and face him. Before Terry could argue further, a thin stream of blood rolling from her wounded shoulder catches his attention and silences him. Because of dangling Max over the edge, Jazz's stitches loosened, reopening her cut. Sensing he's about to help her patch it up, she shakes away his grip and moves past him.

"I'm taking care of it," she mumbles.

Groaning with frustration, Terry moves to the console. "You are freaking impossible! There's no winning with you! I don't even know why I bother trying!"

"I never asked for your help."

He turns to glare at her, her reply clearly setting him off. "If you're giving me this lone wolf attitude because I did some snooping behind your back, which mind you, would have been unnecessary if you were just honest with me to begin with, then by all means go right ahead; but I have no regrets." He approaches as he continues, "but if you think that taking matters into your own hands is the only way to get justice, then allow me to call you on that load of bullshit."

"Who do you-?"

"Shut up. Nothing you say is going to sound even remotely rational right now. Here's some advice for you to shove into your head: get off your fucking high horse, accept you're part of a team, and let me help." Neither his sharp glare nor his edgy tone ease as he says, "let it go and trust me, Douglas."

"You don't trust me," Jazz shoots back.

"You really expect me to after _tonight_?" She looks away, so he gently takes hold of her shoulders. "Look, I get that uncovering all this is painful, but if you want to do right by your dad, you have to accept the fact that you can't do it alone."

She takes a step back loosening the hold he has, but she doesn't regain eye contact. "Okay, fine," she sighs. "I'll do it your way."

"Seriously?" Terry asks, taken aback by her sudden cooperation.

"Yeah," she quietly replies, turning around.

"Hang on; you're not sneaking out again, are you?"

"No, relax. Listen, I'm too tired to figure out where Falon is, so it's up to you. I'm going home. 'Night."

Frowning, he watches her walk towards an alcove wondering why she had such a drastic change in attitude. But he isn't going to make the same mistake he did before; deciding to keep a very close eye on her this time, he waits for her to disappear before attaching a tracking chip from his belt to her bag sitting on the medical table. He makes sure it's hidden in one of the seams before walking back to the console. Jazz emerges fully dressed with arm hanging in her sling, grabs her bag, and takes a last glance at Terry's back.

"Leave the suit," he orders without turning.

She silently complies before exiting the cave. After she makes it to the nearest subway station, she pulls out her phone and gives her close and, right now, only friend a call.

"Hello?" Henry's groggy voice answers.

"You sound tired."

"I was sleeping; it's what people do at three in the morning." He waits for an apology but gets none; with a tired sigh he continues, "so what can't wait till morning?"

"I need you to find someone."

"Who?"

"Jimmy Falon."

"What else do you know about him?"

"He's got a record; he recently dodged the police, so he's got to be on the run."

"Perfect," he groans. "I suppose you need that info in like, what, two hours?"

"As soon as you can," she replies almost ungratefully.

"I'll see what I can do, your highness," he retorts.

"By the way, I need some new stitches."

"What did you do?"

"Moving furniture around."

"At 3 AM? Yeah, okay, sure, I'll believe that," he replies rolling his eyes. With a sigh he sits up in bed. "Come over and bring some coffee, the really expensive stuff."

"See you in twenty minutes." She hangs up and makes a quick stop at a nearby 7/11 before moving on to the subway station.

* * *

Jazz knocks a second time on Henry's door and this time it swings open to reveal a very tired and annoyed doctor. His blond hair seems longer now that it's disheveled, and his bloodshot eyes add to the glare he is giving her. His pajama pants covered with pictures of the Grinch's head catches Jazz's attention.

"The Grinch? Really?" She starts with a raised brow.

"Shut up; get in," he orders turning away from her.

He has his medical kit already laid out on the coffee table in the living room except for the pair of hemostats in his gloved hands, which he was sanitizing earlier. He nods to the couch as he lowers himself with a sigh onto the edge of the table.

Jazz places the coffee on a side table before taking off her jacket and shirt. She sits facing him, but he shakes his head at her. "Lie down; easier for me." She does as told and waits for him to start. He turns on the lamp beside her head, removes the bandage, and begins cleaning the wound with peroxide. Examining it, he clucks his tongue with disappointment. "You ripped through three stitches," he explains before turning to his kit.

Henry applies a local anesthetic and quickly but expertly replaces the torn stitches. Wiping down the wound once more, he meticulously wraps it with fresh bandages. Before letting her get up, he checks to see if damage was done to the wound below her ribs. He cuts the old bandages off and is surprised to find that everything is intact and healing nicely.

"I'd say a few more days and those can come off, but you need to take it easy on your shoulder."

"Uhu," she absently replies as she gets up.

"I'm serious. They can't keep opening up like that," he warns as he applies fresh bandages around her stomach.

Quietly thanking him, she gets to her feet. "I'll see you later."

"Woah, hang on. You can stay if you want."

"No, you look tired. I'll just-"

"Jazz, stay," he orders. Staring into his blue eyes, she gives in with a sigh and makes herself comfortable on the couch. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing," is her quiet answer as she puts her shirt back on.

Being his turn to sigh, he sits on the other end of the couch and rubs his eyes with a finger and thumb. They sit in silence for a while before their heads simultaneously turn to face each other, causing a smile to stretch on each set of lips. Scooting closer to him, Jazz rests her head on his shoulder and he in turn rests his head on hers.

Reaching an arm over her and wrapping it around her shoulders, he asks, "you keeping out of trouble?"

"Always," she replies, her heavy lids closing her eyes and accepting the embrace.

"I hope so."

He shifts around so that he's leaning on the armrest and Jazz could lie comfortably on his chest. Before they know it, they both doze off, and Henry wakes up once through the night only to place a throw blanket on top of them.


	26. Chapter 26

Rain pattering against the window wakes Henry up the next day. Slowly sitting up in his couch, he rubs the sleep from his eyes as he remembers the night before. He discovers Jazz gone, somehow having wiggled out of his embrace without waking him, and lets out a short sigh of disappointment. His clock reads 7:08 AM, but it's thankfully his day off, so he's in no hurry to get ready for the day.

He rubs his sore neck as he rises and takes his time dressing in a pair of shorts and sweater; he comes back out to start his daily routine: turn on the news, review a few notes and cases, have some coffee and go for a run. However, the news that morning forces his routine to come to a screeching halt when the headline reads "Dangerous Sidekick?" and the image of Max Hemming on crutches and wearing a neck brace fills the screen.

As the anchorwoman explains the story, he hears his front door slowly open before Jazz, who still thinks him to be asleep, tries to make a quiet entrance. Her hands are full holding two cups of coffee and a brown paper bag, but she manages to get through the doorway before looking up and noticing Henry's wide eyes staring at her.

She gives him an innocent smile and holds up the paper bag. "Bagel?"

"Who's your special friend?" He asks as his eyes turn angry.

"What are you talking about?"

She makes her way into the kitchen to drop off the breakfast. She joins him in the living room and realizes the reason he asked. Max is recounting the story with over exaggerations while conveniently eliminating the part about the confession he made that night. She can almost hear her reputation as hero being crushed by the media like an empty can under a twelve-year-old's foot. She can't help but scowl at the TV before turning her attention to Henry.

"Who are you working with?"

"Not who you're thinking of," she quickly defends herself.

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"Trust me?" She winces, hoping the reason will stand.

"Jazz!" He scolds standing up, "I gave you that information trusting you wouldn't hurt anyone!"

"Me?"

"I'm not an idiot." He holds his glare while Jazz's face turns blank.

"I have no clue what you mean."

"The late call, the torn stitches, this happening last night, and your 'moving furniture' alibi. I know it was you." Jazz looks away as she quietly curses the hole she dug herself into. "You promised you weren't going to do anything stupid," he continues more disappointed than angry.

"Look, you can assume whatever you want, but I have a class in an hour."

Before she could walk away, Henry grabs a hold of her arm. "Quit while you're still alive."

Her neutral face hardens into a more threatening one. Shaking away his grip, she storms out of his apartment without saying another word.

* * *

Angry that her day has been ruined before noon, Jazz makes it to her apartment with no intentions of leaving any time soon. She finds Zee snoozing on her couch where she had left him the night before; the sight of him alone calms her down. Gingerly picking him up, she gives him a warm smile when he looks up at her and lets out a quiet but hungry mew.

"Let's get you some food, big guy," she coos as she carries him to the kitchen.

Per vet instructions, she prepares the cat food mixed with water and sets the plate in front of him. Hungrily wolfing it down, Zee never notices the pill Jazz slipped into the food, and within minutes the plate is licked clean. Done with it, he sits and looks up at Jazz with green eyes hoping she will fill his dish again. She gives him one more spoonful of food before moving to the living room.

She flops down on her couch and rests an arm over her face, the crook of her elbow covering her tired eyes. Before she could doze off though, her kitten jumps up to join her, inadvertently landing on her tender stomach and making her jump as she pushes him off. With nothing better to do with her day and still upset over what happened at Henry's place, she turns on the TV, hoping for some sort of distraction; but she knows Max's face is the only thing filling new channels right now, irritating her even more. He is overplaying the role of victim, and by complaining of a non-existent neck injury, he's doing a good job at getting the media's attention. There's no way the city will welcome Batgirl's return after this. Tired of listening to him whine, Jazz switches the channel to morning cartoons to get her mind off everything.

She smiles when an ancient show plays on the air. "They don't make shows like this anymore," she contemplates as she watches Bugs trick Elmer yet again.

* * *

Terry had tracked Jazz's movements the night before and found the residence she stayed in that night wasn't hers. The only other person it could be is Tank's, so before retiring for the night, he took down the name the apartment was leased to and went home. So it's no surprise after waking up that morning, he remembers the name Henry Whitman Jr., and more importantly, that he needs to run a search on him. Getting up, he throws a shirt over his chest, and makes his way to his computer. Logging into the Batcomputer, he runs the name but gets a long list of possible profiles. He's tried to find a picture of him to narrow it down, but ends up with the same results. He tries hacking into Gotham Memorial's server to get the list of staff members, but he doesn't find any correlating pictures.

With the trouble he's having trying to figure out who the real Henry is, Terry figures one reason for the difficulty might be because Tank must have picked up the same trick Jazz used to make himself invisible in plain view; after all, he needed to get into med school and find a decent job. Logging out, Terry decides having a concrete physical description might help narrow down the search, but at the moment, the search for coffee trumps anything else.

* * *

Just when Bruce turns off the news, the predicted phone call from Barbara comes in. The last thing he wants right now though, is to deal with her. The phone continues to ring until the answering machine intercepts it. He doesn't stay to listen to the rant about how careless he was to allow Jazz to serve on his team. Calmly moving to the kitchen he takes out a can of dog food for Ace and some tea for himself, saving his fury for when he sees Terry's difficult partner.

* * *

Figuring Henry would be at the hospital, Terry decides to visit and ask after him. The overworked nurse, however, tells him that it was the lucky intern's day off.

"When does he come in again?" Terry asks.

"Are you his patient?" The nurse instead asks with a suspicious look.

"Uh, no, not exactly. He's an old friend… from college… I heard he was working here and I need his advice about something."

"Ever heard of phones?" She sarcastically replies, testing Terry's patience.

Realizing it'll take more work than he thought to get information out of this olive-complexioned nurse, Terry decides to turn on the charm. He leans against the desk and gives her a bashful grin as he looks away.

"Okay, look, here's the thing," he sighs, bringing soft blue eyes to rest on her chocolate ones. His voice lowers to give the impression that what he's about to confess can change the world. "I'm only telling you this cause I have a feeling you have a soft spot for romance," he starts, relieved to discover the nurse's unwavering eyes turn curious. "I have this friend who was seen by Henry the other day down at the clinic, and she was too shy to ask him out."

"Oh yeah?" She skeptically asks with a raised brow. "So why are _you_ here?"

"I lost a bet," he shyly confesses the lie, but the humble demeanor penetrates the nurse's armor, making her chuckle. "Anyway, she wanted me to talk to him, maybe get his number so I'm hoping you could help."

"It's not our policy," she replies, but a twinge of hesitation laces her tone, giving Terry the signal to probe further.

So he whips out his phone and scrolls through the photo library, pulling up a picture of Max before holding it out for the nurse to see.

"That's her," he says, watching the nurse smile at the photo of his best friend relishing a cupcake like it was made of ambrosia. "She's been having a rough time finding someone who could make her happy, you know? See a few months ago she found out her boyfriend was cheating on her and she hasn't been the same since. But when she met Henry the other day, well, she said she felt like herself again for the first time in a while," he lies, making up the sobbiest story he could, knowing women sympathize easily with a victim.

Staying true to that female tendency, the nurses' eyes scan her surroundings to make sure no one is watching before she leans close to whisper, "He's on the fifth floor, intern's lounge."

"I thought it was his day off."

She scoffs as she leans back. "No such thing in an intern's first year. If they don't have a shift scheduled, they have tests to study for, fruits to practice suturing on, or attendings to suck up to; but between us, I think that friend of yours is pretty enough to pull Whitman out of this hospital in a heartbeat. So…" She smiles, nodding to the locked door that leads to the hospital's restricted area.

With a press of the button though, it buzzes before opening, making Terry grin with achievement.

"You're amazing," he winks at the nurse before making his way through the doors.

But now that he's past the first obstacle, he'll need to figure out an equally convincing lie when he confronts Henry. It won't be easy considering he's been let through to a more restricted area of the building where patients don't usually just walk around in. So "bumping" into him won't be a believable excuse. As he rides up the elevator, he figures he could just pretend to be looking for the bathroom… cause he's new to the job… what job though? The corner of his mouth turns down in through before he figures he could pass for a lab tech. First day on the job. That could work, he convinces himself before the elevator doors slide open.

Managing to find his way through the endless corridors, Terry finally makes it to the intern lounge the nurse had told him about. He's glad to find the door is wide open, but when he approaches the room, he discovers three men occupying it, throwing out his earlier lab tech story out the window. How's he supposed to know which one's Henry?

He stops just short of the doorway, staring in as he studies each occupant. His eyes first turn to a tall, lanky man stretched out on the couch and feet perched on the coffee table. The one beside him is chubbier, his lips stretched into a grin as he relays something to the last person seated in a sofa chair across from the couch. His interlaced fingers rest on the top of his blond head, the lips bordered by an equally golden goatee are stretched in another grin as he listens to the chubbier one's story and ignores the book on his lap opened to a complex diagram of a kidney.

As Terry tries to guess which one might be Henry, all three erupt with laughter brought on by the discussion he can't hear. Engulfed with the task of identifying the right person, Terry never realizes he's in full view by the doorway before the occupants suddenly take notice of him as their laughter dies down.

"Hey," the chubby one greets, making the other two turn to the door and Terry to snap out of his thoughts. "Need something?"

"Uh, no," he quickly stammers. "Sorry, just looking for the bathroom."

"Down the hall," he replies before turning to the files he's supposed to be working on spread out on the coffee table.

"Right, thanks," he says, moving down the hall as he tries thinking of another way to get the info he needs.

However, before he reaches the end of the hallway, a voice behind him grabs his attention. "Hey," it calls out making him stop and turn to find the blond intern standing outside the lounge. His blue eyes that were full of humor seconds ago have suddenly hardened, piquing Terry's curiosity. "Who are you?" He asks, stepping towards him.

"New lab guy, first day on the job, you know?"

Henry frowns at him and stops when he's a foot away from him. "Why are you lying?" He suddenly asks, catching Terry off guard.

"What?"

"I remember seeing you in the waiting room after Jazz's surgery couple weeks ago. You lied about being her fiancé," he quietly explains.

That's one way to answer Terry's inquiry. The lost and harmless look he adopted to fool those around him is replaced by his confident and familiar gaze as he stares at the man standing an inch taller than him. Noting the change in Terry's expression, Henry realizes for the first time this twenty-two year old isn't just another one of Jazz's friends.

There's something different about him, prompting him to repeat his earlier question. "Who are you?"

"Thought you already knew that," Terry replies, stuffing hands into his pockets.

"I don't have time for this bullshit," Henry shoots back. "Just tell me if you're the reason Jazz got hurt."

"I can't see how that's possible given Thorn is who she got mixed up with."

"Yeah, except he's saying Batgirl was the one he had fun with," Henry replies, his eyes narrowing with suggestion.

"Woah, not the version I heard. Who told you that?" He asks, masking the anger he feels with surprise. Henry must know who Batgirl is.

What Henry doesn't know though, is just how well Terry is able to lie, his face matching the confusion in his voice making him think twice about Terry being Batman.

"Never mind, it was just a rumor; don't worry about it," Henry replies, but his skeptical eyes remain on the younger man. "Why are you here lying about being a lab tech then?"

This is the question Terry was hoping to avoid, and although he feels like a deer caught in the headlights, he doesn't let it show on his face. His mind races to find a believable excuse, but as though by a miracle of God, an unfamiliar voice interrupts the two.

"Whitman," it calls out making Henry turn around.

"Dr. Drummond?" Henry replies, realizing his attending is the one who interrupted.

"You busy?"

"No, ma'am. Why?"

"Feel like helping out on a hand reconstruction?" She offers, knowing first year interns usually kill for a rare privilege like this; only the best get to assist in complicated surgeries.

"You kidding me, ma'am?" Henry grins.

"OR 3, scrub up in five minutes," she nods before turning down the hallway.

When Henry spins back to face Terry though, he is unpleasantly surprised to find he disappeared. "Son of a," he quietly curses before hurrying to the lockers to change out of his street clothes and into a pair of scrubs.

* * *

The banging against her door pulls Jazz out of the nap her pain medication had put her in an hour ago. With a groan, she shuffles over and opens it without bothering to smooth her disheveled hair or rub red-rimmed eyes.

"What?" She demands when she discovers Terry on the other side, his fury clearly expressed in his glaring eyes.

"How the hell does Henry know?" He starts.

"Know about what?" She yawns, unfazed by his anger.

"Did you tell him?" He asks, stepping into the apartment and closing the door behind him.

"I didn't admit to anything. He figured it out, and for the record I didn't confirm or deny it. Now, I'm tired, so leave."

"Damn it Jazz!" He exclaims, ignoring her. "This is what happens when you're not careful."

"Relax, Henry can keep a secret," she shrugs with indifference, contrasting Terry's reaction. But before she could go back to bed, her sleepy head clears up. "Wait, how did you find out his name?"

"Medical record."

"Yeah, but how did you know it was Henry and not another doctor?" Her eyes narrow accusingly before turning furious. "Damn it, Terry! Stay out of my business!"

"The hell I will! You're lucky I'm not telling Bruce about this! Did you tell him about me?"

"I didn't even admit anything about myself, you think I'm going to tell him about you? Now, leave!" She tries shoving him, but she underestimates his strength when he barely even flinches. Instead, he grabs her wrist and pulls her forward.

"Don't _ever_ make another mistake like that again," he hisses.

"Like you never made it with Max."

"Max found out because she was poking her nose in business that didn't concern her. She figured it out regardless of what I did; it was unavoidable. You, on the other hand, didn't have to hang Hemming over the edge and break his leg." She tries to pull her wrist out of his grip but he's too strong.

"What? You want me to apologize for screwing up again? I know I did and apologizing won't do shit right now. But no one is doing anything to help this case. So I broke a few rules, tarnished a legend, _but I got a lead!_ When was the last time _you_ made headway?"

They glare at one another for a few seconds before Terry lets out a frustrated sigh. "You need to stop treating me like an enemy."

"I would if I knew you were on my side. Henry was until he found out what I do." Hearing that, he realizes Henry isn't going to be calling Jazz anytime soon.

"Jazz," Terry starts, finally letting go of her, "it would be easier if you did things without breaking bones; you can't be reckless then expect people to still be on your side."

Reason finally penetrates Jazz's thick skull, bringing with it feelings of remorse. She was acting on emotions when she let Hemming drop, and in retrospect, Terry's right; it wasn't necessary.

"Fine," Jazz agrees, calming down. "I won't screw up again. So Bruce isn't going to know about this?"

"From you he will sooner or later; my advice, sooner is much better than later."

"I'll tell him tonight," she promises.

Reassured by her sincerity, Terry nods with satisfaction before opening the door. "By the way, thumbs could also be useful or calling me," he adds, reminding her that she can still confide in him despite their difficulties.


	27. Chapter 27

Nicole has been spending her mornings in the café by Jazz's apartment building hoping to catch a glimpse of her daughter. Although every morning she spends there hasn't yielded anything, she has yet to give up. While she waits, she lets her mind wander, bringing up some happy memories she shared with Andrew.

She remembers the day they were being shown the new mansion they were planning to buy. Excitement brewed in both of them, giving them a sense of invincibility, as though the odds will always be in their favor. Nicole sighs; false hope can be such a bitch.

"And here we have the family's sitting room," she remembers the realtor telling them as she walked into the room with a smile on her face. "Original mantle on the fireplace, the floorboards have been replaced, though. They're easy to change to whatever hardwood floor you want. Frankly I think this is the coziest room here. What do you think?" She turned to the couple.

"Is the stone on the fireplace also original?" Andrew asked as he walked over to admire the masterpiece.

"Yes, sir. The previous owners haven't really changed much since they were too rich to even live here," she joked.

But Andrew was too busy running a hand over the smooth, white mantle as he imagined stockings being hung on it, family pictures taking up their residence there, and roasting chestnuts and drinking hot chocolate with his growing family.

"Sold," Andrew finally announced with a smile. He turned to Nicole to see if she approved and she gave him a bright smile with a nod. "Let's go take care of the paper work."

They've been married for six months before deciding to update from their modest apartment in the middle of downtown to the beautiful mansion on the expensive hillside. Andrew managed to convince Nicole not to change any of the décor in the house, but she did update the technology making everything state of the art. Two years of blissful marriage passed before Nicole felt she was ready to add a new family member. It didn't take much to finally succeed and the couple had never been happier.

She finished the nursery a good four months before her due date. She went to Lamaze class religiously, bought every kind of book out there, furnished the nursery with every kind of toy imaginable, and made sure everything she ate was fresh and healthy.

The larger her belly grew, the wider Andrew's smile got every time he looked at his glowing wife. Pregnancy suited her. Once she was three months away from her due date, Andrew booked a suite at the hospital and made sure Nicole was comfortable at all times. He would help her out of the car, rub her tired feet, and even made breakfast every morning.

It wasn't until after she gave birth that the problems started. Andrew was a proud father, but Nicole was a petrified mother. Despite all the books and classes, she was never confidant in anything she did. To make matters worse, her first week was more difficult on her that she expected. Jazz was a crier making Nicole completely fatigued by the end of the first month. She took care of Jazz out of obligation and began to wonder if she started her family too early; after all, she wasn't even in her mid-twenties yet.

Letting out a short sigh, Nicole fills out the last number in the puzzle and puts it away. She turns to look out the window and makes a decision to wait fifteen more minutes before heading out. However, instead of spending the rest of the time alone sipping on her cappuccino, a young man taps her on the shoulder.

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

Taken aback, Nicole turns to look up at Terry. "Excuse me? Do I know you?"

Terry's jaw drops when he immediately recognizes her to be Jazz's mother. Finding his voice, he begins to apologize. "Uh, sorry; you look like someone I know."

The last thing he wants to do now is leave and lose track of her, but he doesn't want to rouse any kind of suspicion. Luckily though, Nicole stops him from taking a step away.

"Look like who?" She knows about the close resemblance between her and Jazz, so curiosity is the reason she asks

"Just a friend."

"Tell me about her," she gives him an inviting smile and nods to the vacant seat in front of her. "That's if you have the time."

Terry can immediately differentiate between Jazz and her mother. They may look very similar, but their personalities are anything but. Without even trying, a faint air of seduction surrounds Nicole. Her eyes can draw any man with only a glimpse and her smile adds a beautiful charm, unlike his reserved and at times intimidating friend. Jazz can pretend to be outgoing, but her silver eyes easily give away the deception.

"Uh, well," he hesitates before taking a seat, "what do you want to know?"

That enticing smile grows, almost making Terry blush. "You can start with her name."

"Jazz," he says, keeping a close watch on her reaction; the corner of her mouth barely twitches.

"I take it she comes here often."

"A couple times a week if it suits her." Terry manages to compose himself and eases into the chair. He's not going to tip-toe around anything; he has to know why she's here.

"How old is she?"

"Almost 22."

"I'm flattered." He raises a brow. "You mistook me for a 22 year old. Quite the compliment. What does she do?"

"She's a student."

"What's her major?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"I'm curious. Who knows? We could be similar in other ways too," she winks.

A small smile of amusement stretches his lips. "Biology."

She let a smile pass on her lips. "She likes animals?"

"She's sympathetic."

A short silence passes before Nicole leans forward and rests her chin on a propped hand. "You know me," she states without faltering.

The seduction in her eyes disappears to reveal a more calculating look, one Terry always imagined her to have. He doesn't react to the statement. "What makes you say that?"

"You don't look like a guy who would give up information to strangers," she runs her eyes over, him taking in the details of his floppy, dark hair; broad, muscular shoulders; and finally stopping on his icy blue eyes. "The question is how much do you know?"

"What are you doing here?" He demands, sensing someone like her is too clever to be deceived easily.

She chuckles as she leans back, clearly not intimidated by this seemingly harmless man. "So I guess you know enough to be a little biased. I was in town and decided to have a cup of coffee." He raises a brow at her. "Fine, fine, fine," she waves a hand. "No point in being guarded. I need to talk to her."

"About?"

"That's a private matter. I expect you're going to tell her you met me?"

He shrugs. "It's not my business."

"You don't seem to care much considering…" She lets her voice trail off. She doesn't like talking about past mistakes.

"Don't misunderstand. I'm protective when the need calls for it." He gives her a warning look that she takes seriously.

Nodding, she gets ready to leave. "I like you," she confesses when her gray eyes settle on his. "I hope we run into each other again soon," she smiles again with all the charm of Aphrodite.

"Why did you leave her?" He blatantly asks, unfazed by her charisma this time.

"Basic etiquette dictates that when I stand, the conversation is over," she quips with a tinge of cynicism. Having said all that she wants to, she walks away, leaving Terry to replay the meeting in his head.

Frustration leads him to rub his eyes with a hand; he's faced with yet another decision of whether or not to tell Jazz. Regardless of his choice though, he knows Jazz's hot head will only push her to overreact and risk getting herself or someone else hurt. Groaning with irritation for being forced into another no-win situation, he gets up to order his much needed coffee in hopes it will help him tackle the issue with a clearer head.


	28. Chapter 28

Jazz nervously stands outside the study where Bruce is waiting for her, feeling like a grade school student sent to the principal's office for the first time. With a deep breath, she finds the courage to walk in and stand facing Bruce, but her eyes remain glued on her feet. She waits quietly for him to start.

"I'll let you explain yourself first," he starts, placing his mug of tea on the side table.

"Henry found out Max was a part of the murder so I tracked him and decided to get the information myself," she replies without lifting her eyes.

"Is there a reason you didn't trust Terry to do it?"

"It's a personal issue. I'd rather get it done myself."

"Why did you throw him over the edge?"

She shrugs. "Felt like it. I didn't think he would talk to the media." The silence that follows is the worst punishment she has to endure before Bruce lets out an annoyed sigh.

"Next time don't let emotions get the better of you."

Surprised, her eyes shoot up to meet his. "Next time? You're not-?"

"There's no point in suspending you if you'll just find another way to get what you want. Working against us doesn't spell teamwork."

"Uh, thanks," she stammers.

"Have you started physical therapy yet?"

"No."

"You start today then; Terry will supervise."

"Bruce, there's something you need to know," she shifts her weight and looks down at her feet again. "Henry found out I'm Batgirl."

The first sign of anger crosses his face. "How?"

"I had to get stitches the other night, and after he saw the news, he put two and two together. But he doesn't know that I work for you or about Terry."

"Just a matter of time," he grumbles getting up.

Looking up at him, Jazz takes a step back to let him pass. "We can trust him, Bruce. He's not going to brag to anyone." But he doesn't reply as he walks away. "What do you want me to tell him?"

Stopping at the doorway, he turns to her. "Nothing. You can't reverse this, so don't make it worse." She nods once and watches him walk out, glad the meeting went better than anticipated. But the relief is short lived when he adds, "you're lifting weights tonight."

With a shoulder that's still sore, she realizes adding weights is going to make therapy a grueling process. Groaning inwardly, she heads to the cave entrance, disappointed that she didn't get away without punishment.

* * *

Glad to finally reach her stop, Jazz gets off the subway train and walks the last 3 blocks to her apartment. Unsympathetic to her condition, Terry pushed Jazz to her limits during training, exhausting her by the time the two hours were over. Arriving to her building, she absent-mindedly punches the code opening the main door and rides the elevator up. With eyes lowered to the floor, she accidentally bumps into someone trying to get on as she steps off. Without looking up, she mumbles an apology and starts moving past the person before he grabs her elbow stopping her from walking away. Her eyes shoot up to find Henry is the one staring at her with a raised brow.

"Where have you been?"

"Work," she replies shaking off his grip.

"You haven't been answering your phone."

"Forgot to turn it on," she lies. She turned it off after she left the manor not wanting to be bothered. "What are you doing here?"

"Well since you weren't answering your phone, I decided to stop by to talk to you."

"About?" She asks turning towards her door.

"How you're doing." She raises a questioning brow at him as she unlocks her door. Inviting him in, she tosses her bag on the floor and heads to the kitchen to get an icepack.

"Never better," she replies holding the icepack against her shoulder.

"Somehow I doubt that. Look," he starts as he leans a hip on the counter. "I'm not here to yell at you or anything like that. What you do on your own time is your business, but I don't want you pushing everyone away while you're doing it."

"I'm not pushing anyone away; you're the one who got pissy at me," she counters.

"Yeah, cause you took advantage of me," he replies, crossing arms over his chest. "I don't like being used, Jazz."

Sighing, she takes a seat at the kitchen table and begins rubbing her sore neck. "I know, I'm sorry," she apologizes. "It wasn't my intention. It's just, everything was happening at once."

Although he's still hurt by the way she abused their friendship, he can't help but sympathize with her plight. It's what compels him to join her at the table.

"It doesn't mean you should risk your life like that."

"Well I've learned my lesson, thanks for the concerned talk," she cynically replies.

Rolling his eyes, he leans back in his seat. "Look, do you want my help or not?"

"I don't need it. I can manage on my own."

"That got you an icepack on a shoulder that'll never heal properly." She glares at him for a moment. "Jazz, I know you and I know how determined you could be; but if you want to live to see your next birthday, I suggest you stop acting like the world is working against you."

She can't help but scoff at the statement, making him frown. "A friend pretty much said the same thing earlier today," she explains, looking down at the tabletop.

"A friend, huh?" Henry replies, remembering his encounter with Terry.

"I heard you met him," she goes on, lifting her eyes to meet his.

"Not long enough to catch his name."

"Terry McGinnis."

"Wayne's go-for?" Henry asks with surprise.

She nods in reply. "How'd you get mixed up with him?"

"Wayne was looking for someone to take care of his dog," she lies, knowing Terry wouldn't want him to find out Batman's identity. "Terry had too much to do, so I took the job."

Although he remembers Terry denying any affiliation with Batgirl, he still can't help but speculate on the subject.

"It's not him," Jazz suddenly says, as though reading his thoughts.

"Never said it was."

"Right," she raises a brow at him, before sighing.

They quietly stare at each other from across the table, trying to predict what the other will say before Henry leans forward.

"I know you still need me to find Falon, but I'm not sure I want to considering what you did to Hemming."

"That's not going to happen again."

"That's not very convincing."

"Trust me, I've learned my lesson. The media's kicking my ass, cops want me arrested, and my partner hates my guts. Last thing I want to do is make it worse."

Drumming his fingers on the table, he debates whether he should trust her confession. He knows she's a hardheaded and stubborn woman, but she also can't lie to him.

So it's the sincerity he finds that prompts him to say, "Falon's hiding out in the suburbs."

She's surprised to learn Henry still looked for Jimmy despite the Hemming fiasco. Before she could thank him, he interrupts with a warning.

"If you pull another stunt like yesterday's, Jazz, I'll to be the worst thing you'll ever face."

A smile stretches on her lips. "Thanks, Henry."

"For what?"

"Sticking by me."

"Thick as thieves and all that," he shrugs, standing to leave. "Stop by tomorrow so I can take your stitches out."

"Wait, you didn't say where in the suburbs."

"I will when you come over tomorrow," he replies, stuffing hands in his pockets and making her scowl. "I'll see you at five," he smiles at her before heading out the door.

* * *

Bruce makes it down to the cave in time to see Terry getting ready to leave for rounds. He takes his usual seat at the console and starts up the surveillance systems and police radio. Terry walks over to his side as he threads hands into his gloves.

"Where am I going first?" He asks, looking at the screen.

"You already know, so don't patronize me," Bruce replies without looking at him. "What's the problem now?"

Shifting his weight onto the other leg, Terry nervously puts a hand to the back of his neck hesitant to confess what had happened. "I met Nicole." Grabbing his full attention, Bruce looks up at him and waits for an explanation. "She was at the coffee place by Jazz's apartment. She said she wanted to talk to her."

"Did she give you any contact information?"

"No," Terry regretfully replies before Bruce looks away in thought. "We still don't have anything that would tie her to the murder."

"We do once we find Falon; he's the only link," he explains, pulling up the most recent information regarding Jimmy's escape.

"Even if we find him, getting him to talk isn't going to be easy," Terry says, lowering his arm.

"You'll find a way."

"You're turning me into a hypocrite," Terry scowls at the back of Bruce's head as he puts his mask on.

"You realize I used to do it all the time."

"But not right after you yell at your partner for doing the same thing," he mumbles as he walks towards the car.

"Hurry up; two victims are still trapped in the accident on I-297."

* * *

"Wake up, McGinnis," Jazz unapologetically shakes him awake, surprising him. He was sleeping on his side before she walked into his room that morning and took a seat next to him.

"What the hell?" He asks, looking up to find Jazz's face staring down at him. He looks at his watch before glaring back up at her. "It's 7:30 Jazz; get out," he orders before lying back down and turning away from her. To get his attention, she gets up and opens the blinds letting in the obnoxious morning light.

"I need to start locking my door," Terry mumbles to himself as he hides his face in his pillow.

"I need your car," she demands.

"What for?" He asks, squinting at her.

"There isn't a subway stop where I'm going."

"Which is where?"

"It doesn't concern you. Where are the keys?"

"Pants," he points to them lying on the floor as he hides his face again.

She picks them up and fishes out the keys. "I'll be back soon."

Knowing he can't just let her leave without an explanation, he groans as he turns over. "Jazz, where are you going?" Terry asks again, sitting up.

"I already told-"

"No more secrets, remember?"

Sighing, she rolls her eyes. "My mom's in town."

Terry doesn't hide his surprise. "Uh, how'd you find that out?" He cautiously asks knowing there's no way Bruce would rat him out.

"When you dropped me off last week, I found a package at my door that was hand delivered by her. I have the address to my old house from the insurance papers, so I'm guessing she's staying there."

"You're going alone?" She shrugs. "I can come if you want," he offers, somehow knowing she would rather not go alone to a house that reminds her of tragedy.

"I'll be fine."

"Jazz, listen," he gets up and walks towards her. "I met her the other day," he hesitantly confesses and braces himself for the worst.

Surprisingly though, she remains composed. "Where?"

"Café by your place."

"What did she say?"

"She wants to talk to you."

She tosses him the keys, making him raise a brow. "How long do you need to get ready?"

"So you want me to go?"

"Only if you hurry up," she replies, leaving the room before letting out a quiet sigh of relief.

* * *

Driving up to the residence's closed gates, Terry turns the car off and looks at Jazz. "So, what now?"

Her eyes are glued on the mansion at the end of the short driveway when she answers, "ring the doorbell."

They both get out and Jazz presses the intercom button on the side of the gate. She waits a moment before pressing it again when no one answers. Receiving the same silence, she approaches the gate and looks around for signs of life but finds none. Giving it a moment's thought, Jazz pulls off her sling and begins climbing the gate.

"Hey," Terry stops her. "You're not breaking in."

Already two feet up, she replies without turning, "it's not breaking in. This is technically my home, so are you coming or not?"

Groaning inwardly, he follows her over the gate and walks the short distance to the mansion's large oak doors. She bends over to study the lock as Terry checks the first floor windows. He tries a few before finding one with a broken lock. Pulling the window open, he calls Jazz over and sneaks in with her closely following. Taking a look around, they find themselves in the family living room and a nostalgic smile crosses Jazz's lips when she finds the fireplace. Terry, meanwhile, takes a look around and drifts off into the hallway.

Jazz picks up a dusty picture frame and stares at the family photo taken when she was two. She wipes away the dust covering her father's face and smiles before putting it back to go look for Terry. She finds him wandering in the dining room and running a finger across the table.

"It's clean," he announces without looking up. "She's definitely here."

"The living room isn't."

"She probably hasn't gotten to it yet."

She turns and heads up the staircase, repressing the last memory she had in the house as she reaches her room with Terry close behind her.

When she opens the white and pink door to peer inside, her eyes go wide with shock before she quickly closes it and turns to Terry.

"What?" He asks, surprised by her reaction.

"She's in there," she whispers, pointing at the door.

Before Terry could say anything, the door swings open revealing Nicole's angry face before she recognizes the two intruders. Her jaw drops when Jazz spins to face her and, for a second, neither one can breathe.

Jazz though, takes a step back bumping into Terry before she finds her voice. "You wanted to talk?"


	29. Chapter 29

Nicole stands motionless staring at her surprised daughter and ignoring an equally shocked Terry. She takes a step out of the room to get a better look at Jazz; it's like looking into a mirror. They share the same gray eyes, plump red lips, and soft apple cheeks. Nicole's hair though is pulled back showing off her olive complexion and faint freckles; whereas Jazz's bangs get in the way of her eyes, hiding a lot of the resemblance they share.

Forgetting herself for a moment, Nicole raises a hand to brush away the hair from Jazz's face, but Jazz moves her head out of her reach. "Don't touch me," she starts, replacing her shock with anger. "Why are you here?"

Composing herself, Nicole straightens up and clears her throat. "Well, I guess I don't deserve a proper greeting."

"Excuse my manners then," Jazz glares at her. "Wasn't very disciplined as a child."

She hides the blow with a scowl before looking up at Terry, "I'm assuming you decided to tell her."

"Keep him out of this," Jazz cuts in before he could reply. "What the hell did you want to talk to me about? And if it's to apologize, you're a bit overdue."

"To be honest, I'm not sure why I'm here," Nicole confesses looking back at Jazz. "I feel I owe you answers, but I know there's no way we're going to be ok."

"Answers?"

"There are some things you need to know, some I'm not proud of." Jazz narrows her eyes skeptically but remains silent as she waits for Nicole to continue. "Jasmine, part of the reason I left you was to protect you."

"Protect me?" Jazz repeats raising a brow.

"Nick was planning to get rid of you, so I made arrangements to put you in a good orphanage before he could leave you on the streets."

"Are you kidding me?" Jazz yells before Terry puts a hand on her shoulder to keep her from punching Nicole's face in. "You left me in the middle of the city before I got sent to an abusive caretaker!"

"I didn't know that until it was too late," Nicole replies calmly. Her daughter's outburst doesn't seem to faze her much. "I tried to get you out of there, but by then, you were already transferred. To be honest, Jasmine, I lost track of you for a decade before I really started looking for you again."

Jazz doesn't know what to say; Nicole's brutal honesty leaves her speechless and she stops herself from just screaming profanities so as not to look like a temperamental idiot. She doesn't realize how tight her fists are balled until the pain from her nails digging into her palms forces her to ease her grip.

"What was the other reason you left me?" She asks without easing her glare.

The question makes Nicole nervous. "I—I'm not," she stammers looking away. "I was selfish; something I'm not proud of."

"Why did you hate me so much?"

"Jazzy, I didn't hate you," She replies looking back at her daughter. "I was only twenty-three when you were born; I never had a chance to pursue my ambitions."

"Which were apparently more important," Jazz shoots back before asking, "what were you doing in my room?"

Nicole, however, finds herself in an awkward position. She looks back at the room before returning her gaze to the two adults. She doesn't want to admit that she had woken up in the middle of the night and ended up wandering into her room looking for comfort. Nor does she want to admit that the only thing she found there was regret.

"I was just cleaning it up," Nicole explains, and she isn't lying. It's the only room she told the housekeepers to stay away from. "I know you have more questions and I can tell you're not leaving anytime soon, so I'd rather we continue this in the kitchen."

Not waiting for a reply, she heads down the staircase with the two following close behind. She invites them to take a seat at the kitchen island, but Terry is the only one who quietly accepts. Jazz stands by the door with arms crossed over her chest and eyes glaring at Nicole's back as she prepares some coffee.

"Why did you kill dad?" Jazz blatantly asks with an unwavering voice. Nicole drops a spoon at the accusation, but keeps her back facing Jazz.

"Who told you he was killed?" Terry silently shifts his gaze between the two women.

"That's not important."

Nicole turns to face her. "I didn't kill him."

"Don't lie to me," Jazz warns taking a few steps forward.

"I'm not. It was Nick's plan and he's the only one who executed it."

"You never stopped him."

Nicole goes back to preparing her coffee. "I was about to divorce your father when Nick got greedy and decided he wanted the company. I didn't think he was serious about killing Andy until the police showed up at my doorstep." When she turns to face her again, there is a genuine look of grief etched into her brow. "By then I knew I was in trouble and I was scared of what he might do next. He may look like an idiot who can barely tie his own shoe, but he's got a side to him that you don't want to see. When he wants something, he gets it. At the time World Chemistry was at its peak and Nick wanted to take over; the only problem was Ethan. After seeing what he did to Andy, I didn't want to be guilty of two murders."

Frowning, Jazz lets her arms fall to her sides. "What are you saying?"

She switches her gaze between the two young adults. "Ethan's alive."

Both Terry and Jazz's eyes go wide with shock. "What?" She stammers.

"I told Ethan his life was in danger, so we faked his death. He managed to get himself an alias and leave the city."

"If he was alive, why didn't you leave me with him instead of dumping me at an orphanage?"

"Because Nick would have gotten suspicious and looked for Ethan. He never contacted me after he left the city, so I never found out where he was. Everyone thought he was dead, even Clair. It was the only way he could sneak away with his life."

"Why didn't he come back after the company shut down?"

Nicole shrugs. "He might have, but I was in France and he didn't know it."

Jazz finds herself at a loss. Ethan was like a father to her and when she had learned of his death years ago, she didn't know what would become of her. Knowing that he's alive because of her mother is unexpected, bringing emotions to clash. Should she be grateful? Should she give Nicole a chance? Emotions cloud her judgment as she begins pacing back and forth before storming out of the kitchen. Turning to Nicole, Terry finds her intently studying her spoon with a clenched jaw.

"Well, this went better than expected," Terry tries to break the tension. Nicole lifts her eyes to meet his but remains silent. "I thought her head was going to fly off her neck."

"So did I," she replies, placing the pouch of coffee grounds into the coffee maker.

"You did?"

"She's inherited more than my looks."

"You act like you know her."

"You could call it mother's intuition."

"So when were you planning on actually confronting her?"

She crosses her arms and eyes Terry accusingly. "Why did you break in?"

He shrugs, "her idea."

"How did she find the address?"

"I don't ask questions."

"You must be old friends if that's the case."

"Not really."

She raises a brow at him. "Then who exactly are you?"

"Someone who felt like breaking into a mansion."

"Is there a reason you never told me your name?"

"You never asked," he coolly replies, irritating her a little. "You were too concerned about Jazz."

"Well then, what's your name?"

"Terry," he says as he eases back into the bar chair.

"So how do you know me?"

"I'm a snooper." Nicole glares at him for a moment before rolling her eyes; a response he would have expected from her daughter. "I found an old picture in Jazz's apartment," he explains. "I asked her about it and she told me her story."

"And how did she figure it was murder?"

"She's a little paranoid and in denial, but I guess she was right." The awkward silence that follows makes him mumble an apology. It's not a subject he should be speaking of in such a light manner.

"Aren't you going to go after her?" She asks, turning away.

"Wouldn't really help much. She's very introspective."

"Like her father." Opening a cabinet, she takes out two mugs and fills them with coffee. "Cream?"

"None, thanks." He accepts the mug and takes a sip. "So what was Andrew like?"

"You really are a nosey young man," she replies, taking a seat across from him. "Why would _you_ want to know anything about him?"

"Curious, and something to talk about till Jazz comes back and forces me to leave."

She gives him a small smile. "I thought you would be more interested in finding out how to nail me."

"Not my area of interest. Besides, I believe your story, and I know you're innocent; the problem is the law views you as an accessory and you're going to be tried."

She raises a brow at him. "I thought this wasn't your area of interest."

"Justice is."

"Hon, there isn't going to be a trial," she coldly states, making Terry frown. "The last thing I need is the publicity. I have a reputation and a business to run, Terry, and I don't want the fashion world to know that Nicole Cleland is serving time for murder."

"How about a plea bargain?"

"Yeah right," she scoffs. "No attorney in their right mind would let me off the hook even if I am willing to testify."

"Doesn't hurt to try."

"I know how the system works. The only good that would come out of a plea bargain is a reduced sentence. I have better things to do with my time."

"Look," he starts, getting up. "If you ever want to reconcile with your daughter, I suggest you show a bit of sacrifice on your end." Nicole quietly stares at him debating whether or not to reply. "Anyway," Terry continues after a moment of silence, "thanks for the coffee."

"Fine," Nicole starts when he turns to leave. Lifting a brow, Terry spins back and waits for her to continue. "But no one is arresting me; I'm doing this voluntarily and with as little press as possible."

"I'll see what I can do," Terry replies, putting his hands in his pockets. "But before I talk to the commissioner, you need to tell me what happened."

"That's a very long story."

"For another time then, and trust me, I'll make sure you'll have time," he cautions. "We'll see ourselves out." He leaves the kitchen in search of Jazz before Nicole could object.

He finds her leaning by the window they used to break into the living room. Blankly staring out at the birds building a nest in a nearby tree, she doesn't notice Terry's presence until he clears his throat.

"You ok?" He asks with some concern.

They never expected to confront Nicole so soon, so he understands that she might be a little shaken up, especially after finding out that Ethan is still alive somewhere.

Absently nodding, she moves past him and towards the foyer. "Let's just go."

Without any objections, he silently follows her out knowing that only time will help her recover.


	30. Chapter 30

Upon her request, Terry drops her off in front of Henry's place, and after making sure she won't need a ride back, he drives off. Finding the door unlocked, she lets herself in and searches for her friend. It's still early in the morning and she knows he tends to have the later shifts at the hospital, so she isn't surprised to find him still asleep in his room.

Deciding he deserves the rest, she heads back to the living room to make herself comfortable on the couch. Picking up one of the few printed textbooks laying on the floor, she curiously flips through it, stopping on diagrams she finds interesting. But it isn't long before exhaustion forces her to fall asleep curled up next to the giant book.

Turning over in bed, Henry stretches out before slowly sitting up. Letting out a yawn, he drowsily heads to the kitchen to get a drink of water. However, on his way back to his room, he notices Jazz sleeping on the couch. He's surprised that she's decided to visit him with no notice, but glad that she's chosen his company as a means for comfort. Knowing she needs the rest, he fetches a throw blanket and gently lays it over her before getting ready for his usual morning run.

An hour later, Henry returns flushed and sweaty but satisfied with the exercise. He grabs an energy drink from the fridge and looks over to the couch to find Jazz still snoozing. Leaning against the counter, he slowly finishes his drink while watching her sleep, and remembers those nights years ago when she used to fall asleep as they gazed at the moon. When she flips over to her other side, she accidentally pushes the book she is sleeping next to off the edge. The resulting thud startles her awake and she shoots up. Turning her head in Henry's direction, she finds him idly staring back at her.

"You dropped the book," he casually explains as he straightens up. Relaxing, Jazz rubs her eyes tiredly as she swings her legs over to get up. "How'd you sleep?"

"Neck is a little sore," she mumbles rubbing it.

"I thought you were coming over at five." She shrugs making him frown. "What's wrong?" He asks sensing something amiss.

"Nothing," Jazz replies, getting up. "You said you knew where Falon is."

Letting out a tired sigh, Henry moves away from the counter, and heads to his bedroom. "I'm taking a shower," he states with indifference, making Jazz frown.

"Hey," she follows him. "You said you were okay with-"

"Look," he cuts her off. "I'm not going anywhere and neither are you. So I'm going to take a shower and then we're going to have a nice talk about what's bothering you before I tell you what I know."

"What's bothering me isn't important enough for us to talk about."

"I didn't know you were such a wuss. What? Did you step on a bug on your way over? I've said this before: I know you. So don't give me your bullshit." Taking off his sweaty shirt, he throws it aside and closes the bathroom door before Jazz could object.

Fifteen minutes later, Henry emerges in a towel smelling fresh and ready for the day. "You hungry?" He calls out to Jazz as he gets dressed.

"No."

"Good, cause I know this one place that serves pretty good breakfast across the street."

"I said I wasn't-"

"Hope you like waffles," he adds, stepping out of his room with an irritatingly happy smile. "Come on." Without waiting for her, he heads to the door, grabs his jacket and steps out.

They arrive at the diner and sit at a table by the window. After ordering some breakfast and coffee, Henry starts the conversation. "So what happened?"

After she lets out a very irritated sigh, she relays the events from a few hours ago ending with how she found out Ethan is alive. All the while, Henry listens intently, predicting what her next request is going to be.

"So she didn't explain the whole story?"

"Not really. I walked out. I was just…" She trails off staring out the window.

He nods understanding what she means but can't say. "So, you want me to look for Ethan?"

Lowering her gaze to her fiddling fingers, she nods once unintentionally looking like a guilty student. "I just need to know if he's okay."

Placing a hand over her restless ones, he reassures her that he'll do whatever he can. "But for now, I've got info on Falon. He's picked up a job by the pier under a different name, of course. He managed to get past the books since he's only in loading so cops can't find him. He lied about skipping town in case anyone squealed on him; that way, they'd end up looking in the wrong corner."

"How did you find him?"

"By being awesome," he replies with an arrogant smile making Jazz roll her eyes. "Can't reveal my sources. So what are you planning to do with him?"

"Haven't thought that far ahead. There's nothing pinning him to the murder. This whole thing is murky, to be honest. I mean this case has been closed for the past seventeen years, and all of sudden it's declared murder because of the brakes. But there's nothing that ties it to anyone. Nick and my mom had alibis, and it's pretty random to pin Falon, an escaped convict.

"And Max is no help since he made the whole scene about getting hurt; we can't tie him to the crime so he can't be a suspect. Plus, we know that police report has been tampered with since they claimed they didn't find any foul play despite having combed through every corner of the car, but that loser is halfway across the world and out of jurisdiction. What we really need is a major player to get caught or confess."

"What if we get Ethan to?"

She frowns at him. "He's supposed to be dead. Not even the police know he's alive. I don't think that would help much."

"But he had reason to lie; his life was threatened."

"Then why didn't he go to the police first?"

"Maybe because he didn't know if he could trust them. Like you said, the report was tampered with."

"I don't know," She hesitantly says staring back out the window. "I was hoping my mom could just confess to the whole thing and get this done with."

"You should go back and have her explain everything."

"Eventually I will."

"Fine," Henry sighs. Realizing he has yet to let go of Jazz's hands, he quickly lifts his hand away and leans back. "Anyway," he starts, "after we're done eating, we'll go back to my place and get your stitches out."

"Thanks."

"Don't worry about it."

"No, I mean for helping me out this much. I forgot how generous you could be."

"Anything for my favorite pickpocket," he replies with a small but charming smile that makes her blush a little.

As promised, the two head back to the apartment after breakfast and Henry carefully removes the stitches on her stomach. After changing the bandages on her shoulder, Jazz starts heading back to her own apartment. Finally reaching her stop, she emerges from the subway station and starts down the quiet street to her apartment. With her music blaring in her ears from the earphones she plugged in earlier, she takes her time walking the half-mile journey to her destination. With barely a soul around, she's grateful to be alone instead of pushing through the rush hour crowds. A few cars whiz past her occasionally, but it's generally quiet enough for her to let her guard down and just enjoy the music.

She turns onto a smaller street closely bordered by buildings feeling free from the anxiety that usually grips her during the night. It's the type of street that makes women instinctively clutch their purses, or men to turn their head at any little rustle they hear; but that was at night. During the day, criminals never really bothered. With that in mind, she lets her attention aimlessly roam, keeping her from noticing the car speeding from behind until its tires screech loudly. Startled, Jazz spins just in time to see the car jump the curb, aiming for her. Diving out of the way and into the empty street she lands hard on her wrist and shoulder as she safely rolls out of harm's way.

Jumping to her feet, she looks towards the driver to find his face covered in a ski mask right before he spins the car and once again speeds towards her. Turning, she starts running towards an alley with the car quickly closing the distance. With barely a few inches left between her and the car, Jazz makes it to the alley in time and jumps up grabbing the ladder to a building's fire exit.

Letting out a pained grunt, she pulls herself up and onto the landing. But when she thinks she's safe, a bullet whizzes past her head hitting the side of the building startling her. Before her assassin could fire another bullet, she starts rushing up the stairs, heading towards the roof. The bullets don't stop flying until she finally reaches the roof of the ten story building. She crouches down behind the ledge to catch her breath. Once she hears the car back out of the alley, she peers down to watch it speed away.

Grabbing her sore shoulder, she curses under her breath when she can't make out the car's plate number. She rushes back to her apartment but hesitates when she's about to unlock her door. Pressing her ear against it, she hears soft movements that make her hold her breath. Quietly, she uses the staircase and hurries back down as she fishes for her phone to call Terry.

Paying close attention to the parked cars along the street, she carefully sneaks off from the building and catches a bus a block away. After trying to call a second time, Terry finally picks up.

"Someone just tried to kill me," she quietly gasps, eyes studying any and every suspicious face.

"Wait, what?" Terry asks, confused.

"Someone just tried to kill me," she slowly but irritably repeats. She gets off the bus at the next stop and hurries towards a subway station.

"Are you okay? Where are you now?"

"Look, I think they're still at my place."

"I'm on my way; head to the manor and stay there till I get back."

Hanging up, she quickly slides her metro card through the slot and rushes to catch the waiting train.

With his camo option on, Batman discretely clings to the side of Jazz's building and peers into her apartment through the living room window. Not finding any obvious signs of life, he opens the window and sneaks in. He searches almost every room finding no one there; but just as he is about to check the bathroom, he hears a rustle coming from the closet. Pressing his ear against the closet door, he hears more movement inside and pulls out a batarang. He swings the door open ready to attack but is surprised to find no one in there. When he turns on the light though, he jumps back when the kitten leaps out of a box and scurries away to hide under the bed.

"Damn cat," he utters under his breath before crouching by the bed to look at it.

The tabby stares back with wide green eyes and hisses at him, making it obvious he isn't willing to come out any time soon. Straightening up, he finally checks the bathroom. Not finding anyone there, he makes his exit and heads back to the cave.

"So?" Jazz asks walking up to Terry after he lands the car.

"No one there, but your cat was locked in the closet."

"What?" She asks, frowning.

"He was in there when I opened the door. He's mean, by the way."

"I didn't lock him in the closet. He was sleeping on the couch when I left this morning."

"Then someone must have been in your place before I got there; I'm guessing your furry bundle of cute must have attacked him, so he threw him in the closet."

"My cat doesn't attack anyone."

"He hissed at me," Terry states as he takes off his gloves. "I wouldn't be surprised if he jumped a stranger. So what exactly happened today?"

"I was walking home and someone tried to run me over before turning me into target practice."

"Did you see who it was?"

"No, he was wearing a ski mask and I couldn't read the plate number."

"Do you have any idea why they want you dead? Unpaid dues maybe?" He adds the last part suspiciously.

"Whatever I might have done in the past, I don't deserve getting killed over it."

"Well, if there really was someone at your place, they might have left their prints on the doorknob or something."

"I'll check if there's anything," she says with a little hesitation. The attempt on her life seems to have shaken her up a little and Terry senses it.

"I'll come with you," he offers. Feeling reassured, she nods and starts heading up the stairs.

When they arrive at the apartment later that day, they tread carefully hoping not to disturb any evidence they could use to identify the intruder. Terry dusts the closet's key pad for prints, while Jazz checks the inner doorknob belonging to the front door. Once finished, she heads to the bedroom in search of her cat and peers under the bed to find him still there and eyes wide with fear. Coaxing him out, she picks him up and heads to the kitchen to try calming him down.

"What I don't get," Terry starts, meeting her in the kitchen, "is how they managed to get in without damaging the lock."

"Probably hacked it with a noninvasive remote," Jazz guesses. With her lock being a digital one, to be able to get to the circuits, one would have to rip open the cover if they didn't have the code; but the lock's panel was intact when they had arrived.

"That would mean pretty advanced tech, the kind more sophisticated criminals would use. You ever rip off a big company?"

"Like I said, nothing I did was that bad."

Leaning against the counter, he gives it a little more thought. "You know, Nicole did say she owns a design company."

"So?"

"She's got the money for that type of technology."

"Okay," she says wearily, "and why would she want to kill me?"

He falls silent for a moment. "You think she still stays in contact with Nick?"

The question makes her frown. "I don't know. She didn't mention anything about that."

"Yeah, but she pretty much confessed to the murder and Nick's part in it. Not to mention revealing Ethan is alive; he could be our star witness. If Nick knows she's here to talk to you, he could have been the one who ordered the hit. He has the resources."

"Wait," Jazz suddenly comes to a realization. "If they tried to off me for that reason, then my mom could be their next target!"

Without wasting another moment, they rush out of the apartment hoping they aren't right.


	31. Chapter 31

When Terry pulls up into the mansion's driveway, their stomachs sink when they find a green Chevy Camaro already parked there.

"That's the car," Jazz gasps before running out and up into the mansion.

She storms through the door with Terry close on her heels before they split up to find Nicole. Jazz makes her way to the living room to find the mask-covered stranger pointing a gun to Nicole's head. Grabbing the crystal ashtray within her reach, she throws it at the attacker's head. Startled, the attacker spins around giving Nicole an opportunity to hide behind the couch. When the gun is pointed at her head, Jazz backs up into the corner.

Just as he is about to pull the trigger, she grabs the floor lamp behind her and swings it at his hand knocking the gun out of it. Skillfully using the lamp as a weapon, she cleanly delivers blows to the head and gut before sending him to his knee by sweeping his leg away. Spinning the lamp over her head once, she takes a step forward and gives him a knock-out blow to the face. Once he falls to the floor, she tosses the lamp aside and grabs her sore shoulder.

She calls out to Terry as she moves to her mother's side to find her wide eyes staring at her in shock. "How did you…?" she stammers as she gets to her feet.

"Never mind; our car is parked outside. Come on."

As she helps Nicole up, Terry appears in the doorway and stares at the unconscious goon on the floor. "Do you have some rope?" he asks as they leave.

"I'm not sure, in the kitchen maybe."

Throwing the assassin over his shoulder, he heads to the kitchen and finds enough rope under the sink to tie him up with before throwing him in the huge pantry. Taking away anything that could be used as a weapon, he closes the door and secures it with a chair under the handle. Returning to the car where the two women stand, he decides driving to his place is the best way to ensure their safety since would-be assassins don't know about his involvement.

* * *

After letting the two women in, Terry heads into the kitchen to prepare some tea as Jazz leads Nicole to the couch and hands her a blanket. She then disappears into Terry's room to check on her shoulder and make sure nothing has been ripped open.

Terry joins Nicole on the couch and hands her a hot mug. "What did you do with him?" She asks referring to the hired muscle.

"Locked him in the closet for the cops. Did he say anything to you?"

She shakes her head. "I was in the living room when I heard the door open. Before I knew it, there was a gun pointed at my head then Jazz rushed in."

"Sounds like we got there in time."

"What made you come back?" Nicole asks after taking a sip of the tea and setting the mug on the side table.

"Someone tried to run Jazz over. We figured they could be after you too. Do you have any idea why they want you two dead?"

Pulling the blanket around her shoulders, her worried eyes look away. "Nick knows I'm here to talk to Jazz."

"How?"

"I asked him to find her for me."

"Why would you do that?" he asks, bewildered.

"Because I couldn't ask anyone else to, but I told him I wasn't planning on confessing to her or anyone else. Guess he didn't believe me."

"Why would you risk it?"

"I didn't think he would dare threaten my life."

"Why not?"

"Because I drew up a will that has a signed statement confessing to everything he did. That's why I wasn't afraid of him or for my life. Something must have changed."

Shocked with her unhindered honesty, Terry quietly gets up and heads to his room looking for Jazz, knowing she should be listening to this as well. He doesn't find her in the bedroom, but he could hear her cursing behind the closed bathroom door.

"You need any help?" Terry asks after knocking once.

When the door swings open to reveal Jazz shirtless and holding a towel against her bare chest, Terry takes a step back suddenly feeling shy.

"The stitches on my shoulder ripped open, _again_," she announces with irritation, ignoring Terry's bashfulness. Landing on her arm and shoulder earlier as well as waving a heavy lamp over her head had caused the damage.

"Let me look," he mumbles. He could see two loose stitches and the wide gash between them dripping blood. "Uh, it's not so bad," he lies, "but I can fix it." Opening the cabinet under the sink, he pulls out a suture kit he always keeps on hand to stitch minor wounds.

With Jazz leaning on the sink, he starts cleaning the wound and wiping away the blood with an antiseptic wipe before giving her a local anesthetic. "You're mom asked Nick to find you," he starts as he waits for her shoulder to numb.

"What?" She asks looking up at him.

"She just told me. Don't blame her; it was the only way she could find you."

"I don't care. She put my life in danger."

He starts working carefully to close the wound. "Look, I didn't get the whole story yet. When we're done here, you can have your heart to heart."

"Fine," she agrees with a little wince. "What did you do with the dreg?"

"Tied him up and locked him in a closet. I'll call Barbara to pick him up later. The good news is if this guy points to Nick, we'll have something solid against him without having to involve Nicole."

"What do you mean without involving Nicole?" Jazz asks, frowning.

"Well, she doesn't want the press."

"Or the punishment. Don't tell me you've gotten all soft hearted just because she doesn't want to be embarrassed." Terry remains silent. "McGinnis!"

"Let's just hear what she has to say first, and you can yell at me later." Her fists tighten with anger, but she remains silent until he's done repairing the stitches. "It's not a great a job as Henry's, but it'll do for now."

He cleans up the trash around the sink and leaves her to get dressed. A few minutes later, Jazz joins the two in the living room but sits as far away as possible from her still shook up mother.

"You owe me an explanation," Jazz starts without an ounce of sympathy in her voice.

"I'll start from the beginning then," she says, looking up at her daughter. "I got involved with Nick six months before Andy died."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Nicole tiredly sighs. "I needed some excitement in my life, and that's what Nick gave me. He charmed me off my feet, made me feel young and free of responsibilities. He never showed me his darker side until I was too involved with him. It came out gradually. At first, I thought he was just a big shot guy who got what he wanted; the best of the best. But soon he started talking about how he would run the company and that Andy didn't know what he was doing. I didn't particularly care about how Andy ran things, so I just nodded at Nick every time he asked my opinion on the matter. Soon Nick was asking me why I was still with him and was pressuring me to just file papers and get it over with. That kind of talk started to sink in; Andy and I got into more fights, I grew distant, and kept thinking that Nick would provide a better life for me.

"That's when Nick started to talk about situations in which Andy would be gone. At first it never entered my mind that when he meant 'gone', he actually meant dead. I kept ignoring the warning signs, the sinister tone in his voice. I was in denial. Then the police showed up at my door." Looking down at her mug, she fights back tears. "They told me Andy was in an accident and he was in the hospital. By the time I got there, they had pronounced him dead."

"When did you find out he was actually murdered?" Terry asks.

"When I met up with Nick the next day. When he came to visit, he had a sort of twinkle in his eye that seemed like pride to me. I asked him if he had anything to do with Andy's death, and he told me I'm better off without him. He said that I was 'lucky his brakes gave out.' That's when I knew he had planned something.

"Soon after, Nick started talking about Ethan and that got me nervous. He started asking me how Ethan was taking Andy's death and if he was suicidal. I made the mistake of warning him not to go anywhere near Ethan. He didn't take the warning well and told me to watch what I said. His tone was cold, not something I was used to. I was too scared to leave him at that point, so I managed to get a hold of Ethan and tell him his life was in danger. I told him everything I knew and we decided that we would fake his death when the time came. Nick was planning on shoving him out of a balcony and writing a suicide note, but we managed to fake a heart attack just before he had a chance.

"We forged a death certificate and an autopsy report so Nick would believe it, held a fake funeral, and he snuck out of town using a different name. I managed to play my part well, deceiving Nick into thinking I wanted everything he was offering just to stay alive. I had no choice but to leave you, Jazz. After we fled to France, I started giving Nick a reason to leave me. It took about a year, but when he finally dumped me for some French whore, I was finally free. But a month before we broke up, I had secretly drawn up a will that included a signed confession of his part in the murder and the attempt on Ethan; so in case of an untimely death, the confession would go straight to the police.

"So to protect myself, I told him about it after he had left me and warned him if he planned anything against my life, he'd be spending the rest of his days behind bars. Four years later, I heard Nick sold World Chemistry and took hold of another company, and I started wondering what happened to you," she says looking at Jazz. "I didn't know the orphanage I left you at was an abusive one. I had cut a deal with the caretaker, telling her I'd pay her a generous sum so she could care for you; but by the time I searched you out, I found out that woman had been arrested for neglect and abuse. I tried to track you down but you had gotten transferred so many times that it was hard to keep up. So I decided to wait until you were eighteen and out on your own. That turned out to be harder than I thought. Nick was the only person who could help me find you, but I never told him that I would be confessing anything. So something must have changed for him to actually try to kill me."

"He probably figured a way to get hold of your will," Terry wonders aloud.

"I wouldn't put it past him," Nicole sighs. She looks over at Jazz to find her eyes cast down and lost in thought. "Jazz?"

Her eyes shoot up. "You had nothing to do with Dad's death?"

"I never planned it if that's what you mean, but I still feel it was my fault," she replies desperately seeking her daughter's forgiveness.

Jazz, however, looks down at her fiddling fingers, feeling a little ashamed for blaming her mother for most of her life without giving her the benefit of the doubt.

"I'm sorry for what I did, Jasmine," Nicole tries one last time.

"I understand you didn't have a choice at the time," Jazz replies with some bitterness mixed into her tone. "But it's not something I can forgive you for," she finishes as she rises from her seat and heads towards the kitchen.

Nicole hides her devastation by silently staring into her mug. With a heavy sigh, Terry gets up and follows his partner into the kitchen. "We need her to confess to Barbara," Jazz remorselessly starts when she sees Terry.

"You need to forgive her."

"What?" Jazz shoots him a nasty glare.

"It's obvious she feels guilty about getting involved with Nick, but that was her only mistake."

"I knew you would take her side."

"I'm not taking sides. She was looking out for you when she gave you up; it wasn't her fault that things didn't go her way."

Jazz angrily turns away from him as her fists clench in anger. "She had no right to toy with my life that way."

Approaching her, Terry puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I know this is twisted to say, but if she hadn't left you, I wouldn't have you as a partner, and you owe her for that. I do."

She turns her head to frown at him. "You're glad I was abandoned?"

"I told you it's twisted," he shrugs. "Besides, I'm sure you don't regret a lot of things you've been through." Turning away, she gives it a moment's thought, her mind automatically drifting to Henry, and begins relaxing her tense frame.

"I still can't forgive her, at least not now."

"That's a start I guess. Are you going to be okay?"

Nodding, she turns to face him. "Where do we go from here?"

"Considering what just happened, how about call it a day and relax."

"No; we need to find out who attacked us and where Nick is."

Terry lets out an annoyed sigh. "Does Henry work internationally?"

"Not sure."

"Find out if he can help. In the meantime, we have to find a way to get this information to Barbara without having Nicole arrested."

Jazz shakes her head. "However we go about this, Nick is going to drag her down with him. I say she confess and get a plea bargain; she can get a good lawyer."

Leaning on the counter, Terry folds his arms across his chest. "How are we supposed to convince her?"

"You don't have to," Nicole replies startling them both. She sets the mug down on the counter as she approaches them. "This entire time I thought I was safe because of my will, but with what happened today, I doubt there's another way to keep us safe."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Terry asks.

Looking at Jazz, she nods. "I'm ready to face a jury if I have to."

"I'll call Barbara," he announces as he straightens up and leaves Nicole and Jazz alone to retrieve his phone.

The two women stare at each other for a moment before Jazz looks away and shifts her weight to the other leg. "Why do you want to do this?" She quietly asks.

"Because it's something I should have done years ago."

"That's all?" Jazz asks, looking up at her.

"Nick killed my husband, and I practically let him do it. I owe it to you and your father to do what I can to stop him."

"Do you want me to find you a good lawyer?" Jazz asks in a shy tone.

The gesture makes Nicole smile. "I can manage, but thank you." Sensing her daughter's awkwardness, Nicole eases the tension by inviting her to sit down. "So where did you learn to fight?"

Jazz shrugs. "Picked it up."

"From?" Nicole asks trying to make her daughter open up more.

"Why are you asking?"

"Curious and impressed. I never expected you could take care of yourself."

"How did you find my address?" Jazz asks.

"Hospital record," Nicole confesses. "What happened?"

"Nothing, I got into an accident. I'm obviously fine."

Nicole nods not fully reassured when she remembers how Jazz grabbed her shoulder in pain at the mansion. "You never told me if you liked the music sheets."

"No offense," Jazz starts, getting up, "but I don't feel like small talk."

"Jazz," she stops her daughter from leaving the kitchen. "I may not have been ready for you when you were born, but that doesn't mean I didn't want you."

"You're staying here tonight," she states dismissing what Nicole just said before leaving.

Slumping her shoulders with defeat and fatigue, Nicole lets out a disappointed sigh and rests her chin on her hand. As she begins to think she's made a mistake, Terry walks in to announce the news.

"You okay?" Terry asks when he notices a lost look on her face. She absently nods and waits for Terry to continue. "I've arranged a private escort to the police department so you can make your statement tomorrow," he cautiously explains. "The press haven't gotten wind of this, and the commissioner is going to try to keep it that way but there's no guarantee to that."

"That's fine; I can handle the press when the time comes. I'm not the first celebrity to face trial or jail time for that matter," Nicole says as she eases back in her chair.

"You're taking this better than expected."

"I've had time to think," Nicole shrugs with indifference.

Terry raises a brow at her. "As far as the guy who tried to kill you," he continues, "they're sending a few squad cars to pick him up and there's going to be someone on duty to keep an eye on the estate in case someone else tries to finish the job. You can stay here until we know your house is safe."

"What about Jazz?"

"She can take care of herself." The look of concern on Nicole's face makes Terry's stomach tighten a little. She reminds him of his mother when she discovers a new bruise on his chest or back. "I'll convince her to stay here, though," he adds as reassurance so Nicole could relax. He's surprised to see her worry so much over Jazz even though she's been away for almost eighteen years. "You really need to stop worrying."

"If you said that to your mother, do you expect her to relax?" Nicole asks studying Terry's face intently.

He represses the infinite memories of him trying to reassure his mother for years before replying, "I get your point."

"Anyway, if there's going to be a look out to keep me safe, I would rather stay in my own house."

"Can't do that; commissioner's orders. Just tell me what you need from there and I'll bring it back."

Letting out an irritated sigh, Nicole stands up. "Forget it; I can buy what I need, just drive me to the nearest store." Terry steps aside to let her through before following her out the door.


	32. Chapter 32

Later that night, Jazz reluctantly arrives to her apartment door and, still shaken from the earlier ordeal, cautiously presses an ear against it intently listening for movement. A frowning neighbor passes by prompting Jazz to awkwardly smile and straighten up before unlocking her door. She steps in and quietly closes the door. Paranoid thoughts flood her mind as she tiptoes from the living room to her bedroom. When she walks into the bathroom, Zee hops out of the tub and runs out, startling her into almost kicking him across the room.

"Jesus!" She gasps before composing herself. She follows him to the bedroom and crouches down to peer under her bed and check on her petrified cat. "Zee, come out of there; I didn't mean to yell."

Preoccupied with trying to coax her cat out, she doesn't notice someone standing behind her bent over body until she spots his black shoes. With instinct taking over, she delivers a sweeping kick sending the stranger to the floor. Blinded with fear, she jumps on top of the attacker and aims a punch to the face. However, in one graceful move, a hand blocks and grabs her wrist, and he rolls over so that he's lying on top of her.

"What the hell, Jazz?"

Opening her eyes, Jazz finds herself staring straight into surprised blue eyes. "Henry!" She gasps relieved her life isn't in danger again.

"Care to explain?" He asks, letting go of her wrist and pulling off of her.

"Sorry, been a little high strung," she mumbles sitting up.

"Why?"

Once she looks down at her fiddling fingers, Henry knows that's a sign of bad news. "Someone tried to kill me today."

His eyes go wide with shock. "What?"

"He even managed to get into my apartment."

"Why?"

With a sigh, Jazz explains everything from her mother's confession to the reason Nick wants them dead. After she's finished, she looks up at her old friend to find him looking back at her with concerned eyes.

"Where's your mom now?"

"At Terry's."

"How come you're not staying there tonight?"

"Don't want to crowd the place. Besides, I can take care of myself."

"No offence, but I doubt it. I saw the look on your face before you tried to punch me. You were too scared to concentrate. God knows you could make a fatal mistake when you're in that state." Jazz remains silent; she knows he's right. "Get your stuff; you're sleeping at my place tonight," Henry says as he stands and helps her up.

"There's no need," Jazz starts.

"From what I understand, the guy who's after you can pick locks, and you're too paranoid to be alone tonight."

"I can't leave Zee," she replies staring at the bed.

"You sure you're not just looking for an excuse?" With a finger, he gently lifts her chin to look her in the eye. "Zee will be fine; please stay over, it'll make me feel better." The small smile she gives him is reassuring.

* * *

It isn't long before they reach his apartment and she makes herself comfortable on his couch. She gives Terry a call to inform him of her whereabouts before lying down. "I never knew this could turn out to be such a mess."

"What do you mean by 'this'?" Henry asks from the kitchen. He emerges with a glass of water and aspirin. "As in my apartment?" He places the water and medicine on the table, lifts her outstretched legs to sit under them, and replaces them on his lap.

"No," Jazz replies scowling at him. "I mean the murder, but I feel better knowing it's almost over."

"How about we not talk about that."

"Why not?"

"It gets you wired. You're supposed to relax when you're here."

She gives him a small smile. "Fine, then what do you want to talk about?" He shrugs before he starts taking off her shoes and tosses them aside. "You're a great conversation starter."

"Thanks," he replies as he starts massaging her foot.

"What are you doing?" Jazz asks raising a brow at him.

"Like I said, you're supposed to relax when you're here." He quietly continues to rub her feet, taking satisfaction in the way Jazz turns to pudding when he kneads certain pressure points.

"Since when did you give foot massages?"

"Since you looked like you needed one."

"I actually like you more now."

He switches feet and smiles when she lets out a small moan. "I take it I found the right spot."

"Uhu," she happily replies. They continue to enjoy each others' company in silence for a few more minutes before Henry stops rubbing her feet and lifts her legs off his lap. "Why did you stop?" Jazz complains looking up at him.

"You look like you're about to fall asleep, which you will do in my bed. I'll sleep out here."

"Forget it. You know you're not winning this argument, so just tell me where you keep your pillows," she counters as she gets up.

After helping her set up the couch with sheets and pillows, Henry retires to his room while Jazz tries to make herself comfortable before slipping into a restless sleep. She tosses and turns as her dreams fill with fear and helplessness. Just as a shadowed man is about to smash her head in with a club, Jazz wakes up startled. She sits up and tries to calm herself down, but her hands can't seem to stop shaking. It's one thing if Batgirl's life is in jeopardy, but having someone know who she is, where she lives, what she does and try to kill that is nerve wrecking.

A sudden clap of thunder makes her jump to her feet and look around the empty apartment. Paranoia takes over again, and she rushes to the door to make sure the locks are secure, then to the windows to ensure they're shut tight. When Henry hears her shuffling around, he gets up to find her intently staring out the window with wide eyes. Seeing her so distressed makes him frown with concern; he's never seen her in such a frazzled state before, but he knows he can offer her comfort. He walks up to her and places a hand on her shoulder, but same as before, the gesture makes her jump back.

"Hey, it's just me," Henry says in a soft voice, but he's taken aback when she starts quivering and tears begin rolling down her face. He pulls her close and wraps his arms around her.

"Sorry," Jazz sobs trying to pull away, but fails when Henry doesn't let go.

"Don't apologize," he whispers caressing her hair. "Take your time."

She buries her face in his chest. "I've never felt vulnerable like that before. Not even with Falon." He tightens his embrace. "I don't know what happened."

"You remembered you're human," he replies.

When he pulls away to dry her wet cheeks with a thumb, the reality of almost losing her sets in, bringing buried emotions to surface. Her tired, gray eyes look up at him making his heart beat faster.

"Yeah well, I hate that part of me right now," she quips, starting to calm down.

"I don't," Henry confesses, brushing her bangs away from her face. A familiar flutter returns to Jazz's stomach as her cheeks slowly redden. "You're blushing," he smiles at her.

"And?" Jazz asks looking away with embarrassment.

She's surprised when Henry lifts her chin and plants a soft kiss on her lips. "I like it when you blush," he replies with a smile that fogs Jazz's mind.

She leans in and returns a deeper, longer kiss; before long and without parting, they manage to clumsily make it to the bedroom and turn their friendship into a blossoming romance.


	33. Chapter 33

Despite the storm the night before, the early morning sun shines brightly over Gotham, showing off the cleaning power of spring rain. When the rays sneak into Henry's room, they seem to add to the softness of Jazz's sleeping form and Henry can't get enough of her. With his head propped up on his hand, he studies her every detail with a small smile on his face. He never imagined they would end up in bed together, but he has no regrets. With the sun shining on her face, Jazz turns away from Henry but scoots closer towards him before letting out a contented sigh when he wraps an arm around her waist.

Just as he pushes away her disheveled hair to give her a kiss on the neck, the faint sound of Jazz's phone ringing makes her open her eyes to look around. Drowsily turning her head, she finds Henry smiling at her.

"Morning, sunshine."

She lets out a groan as she stretches out. "I take it you're a morning person."

"Today I am," he replies with a cheeky grin that makes her smile. "Are you going to answer that?" Henry asks referring to the ringing phone.

"What time is it?" She drowsily asks, ignoring it instead.

"Seven."

The reply makes her groan again before she hides her face in Henry's bare chest to block out the brightening light. Before she falls back to sleep, her phone starts ringing again, making her push away and slowly sit up.

"I guess I better get that," she complains as she stands. Grabbing Henry's shirt from the floor, she throws it on covering her bare body and picks up her phone buzzing on the coffee table. She finds it's Terry informing her that Nicole is being escorted to police headquarters and she should join them to make a statement about the attempt on her life. She tells him she'll be there in a half hour before hanging up and getting ready to leave.

* * *

She finds Terry in the hallway slouched on an uncomfortable chair across from Barbara's closed office door, waiting for further instructions from her. She could tell he's bored from the look on his face staring at the ceiling.

"Hey," she greets, interrupting his task of counting the ceiling's holes.

"Took you long enough," Terry replies, watching her take a seat beside him.

She shoots a scowl his way. "I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"Sorry; been bored."

"How long have they been in there?"

"Almost an hour. I tried calling you a few times before you finally picked up."

"I was preoccupied," she hastily replies, staring at Barbara's door to avoid the brow Terry quirked.

"Preoccupied?"

For some reason, she feels too embarrassed to tell Terry she shared a bed with Henry the night before, but to her relief, Barbara's door swings open.

Barbara steps out closing it behind her. "Here's what's going to happen: we're going to wait for her lawyer to show up before we can detain her anywhere. Meanwhile, you can give me your statement," she continues, looking at Jazz. "As for Nick, I'll alert the French police and see what we get from them."

"There's another thing," Jazz starts as she stands. "We found Falon. He's been working at the docks."

"How did you find that out?" Barbara asks.

"From a friend."

Nodding, Barbara starts walking down the hall, signaling for Jazz to follow her. "We'll take your statement in another room."

Jazz can sense a certain bitterness in Barbara's tone, but she doesn't hold it against her. After all, Jazz single handedly ruined the reputation of a hero that served Gotham for decades.

Before the two could walk away, Terry stands and calls out to Barbara. "Are you going to need me for anything?" He asks, praying she would say no.

"Yes," Barbara curtly replies without stopping. "I'll come back for you."

Groaning inwardly, Terry retakes his seat and starts counting the scuffmarks on the opposite wall.

Barbara leads Jazz into an interviewing room and asks her to take a seat. Obediently sitting on one of the metal chairs, Jazz starts fiddling with her fingers as Barbara sets up the recorder and hangs her coat on the back of the chair.

"Let's start from the beginning," Barbara starts with a cold disposition. "What were you doing yesterday morning before the incident?"

"I was walking home from the subway station."

"Where were you before?"

Jazz hesitates for a moment looking into Barbara's icy eyes. "My mother's house."

"Continue," Barbara replies looking down at her notes.

Jazz goes on to tell her about almost getting run over and the intruder in her apartment. When Barbara asks her why she went over to Nicole's house after that, Jazz explains that she had a hunch her mother might also be in danger since they are family members. A few more questions later, and Barbara turns off the recorder.

"Look, I'm sorry," Jazz starts in a low whisper.

"You can go," Barbara replies in a stabbing tone. With a sigh, Jazz stands and walks out the door.

She meets Terry in the same place she left him, and slumps down in the chair. "What's with you?" He asks picking up on her aggravated mood.

"Leave me alone," she snaps, looking away.

"What did she say?" Terry continues, ignoring her request to drop the subject.

"Nothing."

"Why won't you tell me?"

"I just did; I tried to apologize for you know, but she didn't say anything."

"She'll get over it eventually."

"You really know how to brighten a person's mood, don't you?" Jazz replies scowling at him.

"Trust me," he nudges her with his elbow.

"McGinnis," Barbara calls down the hall and signals him to meet her in the same interview room.

"Don't beat yourself up," Terry attempts to reassure her one last time before getting up and heading towards Barbara. "You know, commish," Terry gives her a smirk, "I thought being your favorite, I'd get to go first."

"Spare me the jokes; I want to get this over and done with."

She sets up her recorder same as before and asks the same questions she did with Jazz. Terry recounts the events, leaving out anything that would indicate he was investigating without police consent. He finishes by saying he was following Jazz's hunch and was lucky she was right. Barbara turns off the recorder and starts gathering her things before Terry stops her.

"I take it you're still holding a grudge," he starts, referring to Jazz's handling of Max Hemming.

"Not now, Terry," Barbara replies.

"When then?" She gives him a chilling glare. "She's not like you," Terry continues, never growing intimidated. "So her mistakes won't be like yours, but don't forget they're still mistakes."

"Watch what you say, McGinnis," she warns. "You're in no position to give me a lecture."

"I'm not lecturing, I'm reminding… in a friendly way," he adds with an innocent expression. "You gave me a second chance, so why not her?"

"You're free to leave," she states, standing. "Quietly," she adds with a glare.

Shaking his head, Terry gets up and walks out into the hallway.

Two hours later, Nicole's lawyer manages to negotiate a house arrest until the day of the trial, which has yet to be set. Nicole silently follows Barbara out the office and to her car to be driven home. Finally free to leave, Terry stands and stretches out as he lets out a relieved sigh.

"Looks like we have the afternoon off," Terry starts, turning to Jazz. "Want to get lunch?"

"You're asking _me_ to lunch?"

"Sorry, I forgot to add some drama to the offer. Would you prefer if I insult you first?"

"You're really aggravating sometimes," Jazz scowls at him.

"Especially when I'm nice," Terry rolls his eyes. "Forget it then. I'll see you later." With hands stuffed in his pockets, he starts walking away.

Giving in to the nagging guilt of unfairly blowing Terry off, Jazz lets out a sigh. "I'm in the mood for burgers."

Stopping, Terry turns with a smile on his face. "You read my mind."

* * *

The call he received earlier about the failed assassination continues to irritate Nick, ruining his mood for the day. He cancels his business meetings to sit alone in his office wondering what his next step should be. He regrets helping Nicole find Jazz, but he's glad he was finally able to alter Nicole's will while she was out of town. Giving it a little more thought, a sly grin stretches when he reaches a solution to his problem. Glad he keeps in touch with his henchmen, he dials a number familiar to few people.

After a few more rings a voice finally answers. "Hiya, Jimmy," Nick greets still smiling. "Got a job for you."


	34. Chapter 34

"Mom, I'm not falling behind," Terry's irritated voice echoes through the dark hallways leading into the east wing of Wayne Manor.

After his lunch with Jazz, he had decided to head back to the mansion to finish neglected homework and maybe solve some other cases. He received a call from his mother when he arrived a half hour ago, and is now trying to convince her that postponing his graduation date for the second time isn't hurting his academic career. He never liked arguing with his mother in front of people, so he starts wandering into the still deserted parts of the manor knowing he won't be running into anyone there.

"I had to drop a few classes this semester because of schedule conflicts," he explains as he passes by a door that is cracked open.

He finds this strange since he knows Bruce still has many of the unused doors locked. His mentor may have an honest relationship with his protégé, but it doesn't mean he's careless with secrets. He stops in front of the door as he finishes his conversation with his mother. After reassuring her for the fourth time that he will be graduating in one more semester, he hangs up before she could ask about work. He pushes the door open to find a roomful of tarp-covered furniture and the black piano sitting in one corner of the room. Figuring he's in a music room he never knew about, he walks in wondering who could have used it recently.

Terry has always been a curious person, poking his unwanted nose into business that didn't concern him. During the five years he spent working with Bruce, he has gone off countless times to explore the huge estate without Bruce's permission. Eventually, the old man warmed up to Terry and soon many of the closed off rooms were reopened; pieces of furniture, though unused, were uncovered and cleaned; and it wasn't long before the manor slowly returned to its glamorous state. Terry never thought that the rejuvenation of the manor reflected Bruce's spirit, but he noticed a positive change in his mentor, so he never stopped exploring.

He begins pulling the tarps off uncovering the elegant furniture that was hidden away years ago. He has never seen old-world style furniture, so he takes a closer look at the wood detailing carved into the couches and chairs. He continues admiring the artful designs with both his eyes and fingers, forgetting about the reason he drove to the manor in the first place.

* * *

With Henry at work and finished with her classes for the day, Jazz decides to head to the manor to practice her self-taught piano lesson. She walks down the hall she is familiar with, but halfway to her destination, the sound of music stops her. Frowning with confusion, she stops short of the open doorway and quietly listens to the harmonious melody coming out, admiring the flowing notes that crescendo perfectly before smoothly quieting down. If she didn't know better, she would have assumed a professional pianist was performing the symphony. When she pokes her head into the room, her brow rises with surprise when she finds Terry seated at the bench focusing on the piano keys he presses.

His fingers flow perfectly over the ivory keys and his memory never wavers as he remembers the next measure just before the previous one ends. As he reaches the symphony's conclusion, he looks up to find Jazz staring at him from the doorway with mouth agape. Returning his gaze to his fingers, he effortlessly finishes the piece before closing the instrument's lid.

"I'm assuming you're the one who uses this room," he says, standing as he steps out from behind the piano.

"That was amazing," Jazz praises walking towards him. "How come you never told me you played?"

Terry shrugs. "Not something I tend to mention."

"How long have you been playing?"

"My parents signed me up when I was a kid, but I stopped taking lessons when I was twelve."

Nervously shifting her weight to her other foot, she enviously stares at the glossy instrument. She has always admired the piano, at one point dreaming about performing moving symphonies with perfection.

"You, uh, you think you could teach me?" She timidly asks.

Amused by her coyness, he gives her a small smile. "You want _me_ to teach you?"

"If you're willing." He gives it a moment's thought before nodding towards the bench, inviting her to sit. "What were you playing?" She asks, hiding her excitement by moving to the piano and lifting the lid.

"Tchaikovsky's June; it's tougher than it sounds. So what do you know so far?"

"Don't laugh, but just a few chords," she replies in a small voice.

"We all start somewhere," he shrugs, easing her initial nervousness.

She's glad Terry is handling her vulnerability with a gentleness she didn't expect. Sensing he'll be just as supportive during the lesson, she slides to the right side of the bench and he sits on the other.

"What do you want to learn?"

She takes out the book she has been studying from and opens it up to a page. Reading over the notes, Terry raises a brow at her. She chose Weber's Perpetuum Mobile, a very complicated piece that even he feels he couldn't perform correctly.

"Uh, how about we start with something simpler."

Flipping through the pages, he finds the perfect piece that provides finger exercises and an easy to learn melody. Open on Hovhaness' Moon Dance, he rests the book on the stand and explains the symbols being used. After showing her how to play the left handed notes a few times, she begins playing it for herself starting slow then speeding up after her mistakes diminish before all together disappearing. With shoulders touching, he asks her to repeat it as he fills in the missing melody with his right hand. Stumbling at first, Jazz gets the hang of it, and as her performance smoothens out, a smile creeps onto her face.

"Relax your fingers," Terry instructs. "Your notes shouldn't sound choppy. Good, there you go."

"You're a better teacher than a sparring partner," Jazz quips still smiling.

"Ever thought it might be because you're a better student?" He counters, intently watching her fingers repeat the same choreography on different keys.

"How am I better?"

"You're actually listening to me," he replies, adding a little trill to the melody that wasn't on the music sheet before playing on.

"I've always listened to you." He raises a disagreeing brow at her. "In my defense, you make it hard when you're constantly telling me what I did wrong."

The comment causes his finger to slip onto the wrong key, breaking the melody for a split second before he corrects himself. It makes him realize that he's adopted Bruce's training style, something he was hoping to avoid since he resents the unmerciful challenges Bruce puts him through before reprimanding him for mistakes and forgetting to compliment him on achievements. He knows first hand how difficult training can be when negativity is the only thing that surrounds him.

"Am I that bad?" Terry asks, looking over at Jazz.

"You are when you're pissed," she replies, her eyes concentrating on her fingers.

He uses his left finger to lift her chin a little. "Keep your eyes on the sheet, your periphs on the keys." The gesture momentarily throws her off, but she quickly corrects herself, intent on hitting the right notes without gazing down.

"It's not that I mind the harsh treatment; Henry used to be a lot less forgiving. It's just, I don't know," she tries to think of the right words. "It's like it doesn't suit you, being that tough, you know?" The sigh that escapes him brings Jazz's apologetic eyes to look at him. "Hey, I'm sorry if I offended you."

He shakes his head. "No, it's not that. I just didn't realize how much of Bruce I let rub off on me."

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

He shrugs. "Too much of Bruce _is_ a bad thing; I mean, come on," he adds, looking over at her with suggestive eyes.

"I guess," she replies, remembering how unsympathetic Terry was during training the other day.

The sound of the soft notes playing harmoniously fills the room for a few minutes before Terry's hand abruptly lifts away, making Jazz stop as well.

"Before all this happened, you were just a job to me," he finds himself quietly confessing while avoiding her gaze. "I clock in by training you, clock out by bandaging your cuts. I didn't really care about anything else."

"I don't blame you," she replies with equal unexpectedness. "I didn't give you a reason to think of me otherwise." He brings his eyes to lock with hers. "I really am sorry, Ter," she apologizes with sincerity he's rarely seen her use.

"So am I," he replies, carefully watching her face, amazed by how different she seems with her vulnerabilities laid out.

For the first time since they met, Jazz feels truly free in his presence, no longer bound by the fear of being judged. It's been a long time since she's felt this way, a smile stretching her lips to show her relief. Who knew learning to play an instrument could help two people get along so well?

"So does this mean you're going to take it easy on me?" She asks, making him scoff.

"Not that much," he replies with a grin, making her eyes roll.

"Can't say I didn't try," she sighs, bringing her attention back to the music sheets. "So, what does that symbol mean?" She asks pointing at a straight line running under the notes, starting and ending with notches.

"Right pedal," he explains, pointing at the three levers beside their feet. "Press down on the first notch, release on the next and so forth. Play your part and I'll show you," he says, placing his foot on the pedal.

They play the sonatina harmoniously, Jazz feeding off of Terry's calm energy as he plays the melody with the kind of gentility musicians can add to any piece.

"You want to try playing my part?" He offers, stopping a few measures from the end.

"Uh, sure," she hesitantly replies.

"Relax, you'll do fine," Terry encourages, moving over just enough so she can reach the right keys.

He explains where her fingers go and demonstrates one last time before handing it over to Jazz.

"Start out slow," he coaches, "and don't worry about making mistakes."

"Easy for you to say, Mozart," she says as she lines her fingers on the appropriate notes.

He ignores her comment and waits for her to start. The first two measures she manages to play slowly but without mishap, but her fingers fumble when she moves on, making her cringe and apologize.

"Sorry for what?" Terry asks, pointing at the next set of notes for her to play.

"I don't know, messing up," she replies, slowing down even more as she tries to coordinate her fingers, each hand trying to master their differing choreography.

"And what are you expecting in return? To be blessed with perfection?"

"You're point, McGinnis?"

"I'm only Mozart because I really sucked when I started."

"Liar."

"You can call my mom and ask her yourself," he replies.

"So how'd you get better?"

"I was competitive."

"Competitive?" She asks raising a brow but keeping her eyes on her fingers.

"You seriously expect a hyper six-year-old boy to actually like the piano?" He counters.

"Good point."

"To motivate me, my teacher turned everything into a competition, rewarding a different winner every week. Only reason I learned my chords in three days."

"So were you like the star prodigy or something?"

"Hardly," he scoffs. "But I was the one who improved the fastest."

"Wait, so you really did suck?"

He nods once as she reaches the measure before the last and stops there. Terry takes over and explains how to play the conclusion since the notes looked alien to her. After she tries it for herself, she looks up at him with grateful eyes, knowing she never would have even gotten this far if he wasn't there to help.

"Can you, uh, play June again?" She asks, hoping to watch his fingers in action this time.

He shrugs and cracks his knuckles as Jazz gives him room to play. His hands drift to the appropriate keys, and after taking a deep breath, he starts the moving piece, playing the first notes with slow, deliberate strokes. He keeps the tempo steady, his flowing hands adding emotion to the music.

She flits her admiring eyes between the graceful hands to his concentrating face, impressed by how in control he is but seeming so carefree. Not a trace of rigidity shows as the tempo suddenly picks up, transforming the piece into a lively one. The speed with which he moves his fingers makes her eyes widen with awe, amazed by the way he maintains the accuracy despite the swiftness before the melody slows down again.

She marvels at his ability to move from an uplifting and energetic section to the original, calming tempo without making the piece seem fragmented. As his fingers drum over the last few notes, quieting down as the sonata comes to an end, he looks over at Jazz to find her eyes wide with wonder.

"You're really good," Jazz praises when he finishes. He timidly places a hand on the back of his neck as he quietly thanks her. "Wow, Terry McGinnis is actually bashful," she teases.

"I don't like performing in front of an audience."

"Even an appreciative one?"

"Hard to tell between appreciation and sympathy sometimes."

She frowns at him. "What do you mean?"

He lets out a sigh as he fiddles with a few keys. "When I was eleven, I performed at a concert where I got a standing ovation. Still being competitive, I worked hard for a year so I could top it at the next concert. When that day came though, I must have psyched myself out or something cause the next thing I knew, I was messing up at least a dozen times. But when the audience still got up to applaud, it made me wonder if I was really that good or if I had a pitying audience. Dropped out of lessons after that."

"You were just a kid, though; they were just boosting morale."

"I don't need them to doing me a favor."

"You're too tough on yourself, McGinnis."

He raises a brow at her. "Oh, cause you pat yourself on the back every few minutes?" He sarcastically asks, sending her eyes into a roll.

"We're a pair to be admired," she quips, making him scoff with laughter.

"Being Batfolk doesn't help much."

"Was that a complaint?" Jazz playfully asks, making him grin. "Never thought you were the type."

"I'm human, Jazz," he replies, closing the lid over the keys.

"Never would have guessed," she jokes as she closes the booklet and tucks it into her bag.

"I could say the same about you," he retorts as he gets up. "So, you want to meet here same time tomorrow?" He asks.

"Really?" She asks, surprised by the offer.

"You want to reach that unrealistic and unattainable perfection, don't you?" He sarcastically quips, receiving a playful scowl in reply. "Then we meet tomorrow. Anyway, I have homework to finish before heading out. You can have surveillance duty for the night."

"Thanks."

"Hold the gratitude till after I brew a full pot of coffee."

She smiles as she watches him walk out, realizing that letting her guard down around him is an experience she won't regret. The damage she had done to their relationship over the last seven months is finally repairing itself. As she rises, she places a hand on the black instrument as if with gratitude for bringing them closer together before she makes her way to the cave.

Terry, meanwhile, takes a slight detour into the kitchen to satisfy a growing hunger. Opening the fridge, the first thing he sees is a container of food with a note hanging on its side making him smile. He pulls off the note to read "shepherd's pie almost from scratch" written in Jazz's uniform handwriting before transferring the cold food to the microwave and counting down the seconds to appreciating her talent as a cook.

* * *

Gracefully gliding from one building to the next, Batman stays in contact with Jazz through the comlink. Since Bruce is busy resolving company issues for a morning meeting, he doesn't have a problem with Jazz taking control of the console for the whole night.

"It's a pretty quiet night," Jazz announces as she listens to the police radio.

"Don't jinx me," he replies. "Any sightings on Thorn?"

"Nothing on the security cameras," she replies, switching the screen over to the video surveillance at the pier.

"You sure Henry said he's working there?" Batman asks, his eyes scouting his surroundings with scrutiny before perching himself on a high-rise building.

"I thought you were starting to trust me."

"You, yes. Mysterious friend from the past who's the human equivalent of Wikileaks, not so much."

"He's more reliable than Wikileaks."

"I still wouldn't site him in my bibliography," he quips before a shadow leaping from one building to another catches the corner of his eye and making his head whip in its direction.

Using his cowl's sensitive lenses, he zooms in on the dark mass standing on the roof of a nearby building before it makes its way down the fire escape. He's somewhat surprised that he recognizes the man to be Jimmy "The Thorn" Falon, but he's more concerned when he realizes Thorn looks like he's on a mission when he emerges from the alley's shadows. After looking both ways, Thorn pops the collar of his jacket to partially hide his face and makes his way across the street towards a building familiar to Batman.

"Bad news for Henry's reliability," Batman starts, turning on his vid link for Jazz to see.

"What's he doing?" Jazz asks, swallowing the innate rage she feels when she recognizes Thorn.

Batman leaps off of his perch to follow Thorn heading towards Jazz's apartment building. "Looking for someone; you, I'm presuming. Good thing I got a party planned for him. Better say hi."

Taking advantage of Thorn's distraction, Batman glides down to the sidewalk. Before landing, he fires the batarang with the titanium ribbons that wrap around the would-be intruder before he has a chance to draw a dagger. Falling to the ground, Thorn looks up just in time to see Batman land by his head.

"Well, this is an unexpected surprise," Thorn greets with a taunting grin in his voice. "How's the girlfriend?"

Grabbing his shirt, Batman effortlessly pulls him up. "She has a message for you," he replies before knocking him out with a single blow.


	35. Chapter 35

Rolling his head back, Thorn slowly opens his eyes to find himself sitting alone in a room faintly illuminated by the yellow glow of street lamps. He tries to lift his arms, but discovers they've been tied down. Looking around, he finds the only thing furnishing the bare room is a projector on the floor in front of him. He tries to pull himself free of the binds but quickly fails.

"Don't bother; you'll just tire yourself out," Batman, leaning on the wall behind him, advises.

Thorn whips his head around, but Batman is out of his line of vision. "To what do I owe this special treatment?"

"Thought we could have a little heart-to-heart."

"And you expect me to talk because…?" Thorn asks with a cocky grin.

"It's highly recommended."

He lets out a loud, amused laugh. "Oh, Batman. Who do you think you're dealing with here? You think I built a reputation from thin air? Now, now, what would people say if I couldn't handle my own poison? But I'll let you humor me; I'd like to see what the legendary Dark Knight has up his sleeve."

"You're chatty tonight; how bout you tell me where Boris is."

"Screwing your girlfriend," he replies with a spiteful grin.

"I really don't like repeating myself."

"Then you better teach me a lesson so I don't do it again," he taunts.

The projector in front of him suddenly whirrs to life and the opposite wall fills with the image of a woman, the faint wrinkles around her eyes suggest she's in her mid-thirties. Thorn's smile instantly fades when he recognizes her.

"Remember her?" Batman casually asks. "Sure you do; she's your wife; oops, I mean ex-wife."

"I know this tactic," Thorn tries to sound confidant, but his smile doesn't return. "Save your breath, it's not going to work. You'll have better luck adopting some of my techniques."

"Oh, but you're wrong. That old saying about sticks and stones, Jimmy, you know it's a lie."

"So you're going to use my wife to make me talk? Tell me how much of a monster she thought I was and how she walked out on me? Save it," he scoffs. "You're better off finding a couple stones, Batman"

"Actually, I was planning on telling you how well she's doing without you," Batman replies, noticing Thorn stiffen. "She's married now; to a dentist. Says she's never been happier. The way she talks about you though," he clucks his tongue before continuing. "Says you were the biggest mistake, a coward, beating her cause you didn't have the balls to pick on someone your own size. Her only regret about leaving you was not being able to see your face when you found out she was gone."

"Not working, Batman. Try again." Although he keeps his voice calm, Batman can sense the tension he is trying to hide.

The picture blinks to reveal a different face. This woman is considerably younger, but she shares a resemblance to the first woman. "Krystal Falon. Oh, my mistake, she changed her name to Krystal Kolby. She wanted nothing to do with you, so she adopted her stepfather's name. Nice girl, nothing like you of course. She told me about the day she publicly disowned you at the family reunion you crashed. Must have been embarrassing to have a seventeen-year-old girl humiliate you like that."

"You're failing miserably," Thorn informs, looking away.

"Is that why you can't look at a picture of your daughter?"

"I don't give a shit about them."

"What about mommy then?" Batman asks, switching the picture to that of his mother. "She's quite a character. What was the word she used to describe you? Oh yeah, a lowlife." He strikes a nerve in Thorn. "A good for nothing son, a little bastard who was never good enough for her," he taunts, pleased when Thorn visibly tightens every muscle in anger.

"Enough," he hisses through clenched teeth.

"Not done," Batman replies and switches to the next picture. "Molly is her name, right? I've heard about sibling rivalry, but you never had a shot at winning anything. I mean look at her, she's the perfect baby sister. Beautiful, smart, married well, and most importantly, mom is so proud of her. The day she was born, mommy washed her hands of you, didn't she? Molly got the attention, the toys, the love," Batman mockingly adds the last words. "Shadowed by a baby girl; how pathetic."

"I said enough!" He yells, proving Batman's hunch about him having a superiority complex around women was right.

"Your poison getting to you, Jimmy?" Batman asks with a smile in his voice.

"You want to know where Boris is?"

"Your call; I've got a bunch more family photos you'd love to revisit," he casually replies.

"He's hiding out in Barcelona," Thorn confesses with his head hung low.

"Spain? He's supposed to be in France."

"He flew to his Barcelona office a few days ago. Told me to call that number after I finish off the girl."

"Do you know her?"

"I don't ask questions. Nick offered fifty grand for her dead and I took the job. He gave me the address and name, and I went to work."

Straightening, Batman takes out the small disk containing the pictures in the projector and places it in his belt. Standing in front of Thorn, he takes out the recording chip from his wrist and plants it on top of Thorn's binds.

"Thanks for volunteering the info, Jimmy," Batman states as he walks to the open window. "Cops should be around to pick you up in a few minutes. 'Night." He shoots him a satisfied grin before flying out into the night.

Thorn lets out a cry of frustration when he realizes Batman has just screwed him over. During their conversation, Batman made sure to only tape the confession, and by taking away the evidence of pictures, Thorn will look like he volunteered the information rather than forced into confessing. Since word travels fast in the criminal world, he's sure no one will be willing to hire him for a hit once they know he's a squealer. To add insult to injury, he'll be the laughing stock of Gotham if they find out he caved after having a taste of his own medicine.

"I'm going to rip that bastard to shreds," he hisses before the door bursts open and the police rush in on the scene.

* * *

"Smooth," Jazz compliments over the comlink as Batman drives home. "How did you get all that info on him?"

"With a fake police badge and a charming smile."

"Does Barbara know about the badge?"

"You think I'm an idiot?"

"You have your moments," she teases. "Anyway, Nick is an executive for a shoe company called Achilles. I have the address of the office Thorn was referring to, so how do you want to go about this?" She asks, making Terry quirk a brow at her willingness to work as a team.

It's a stark difference from the stubborn woman who had dangled her most recent victim over the edge of a rooftop, so he's happier about the change.

"Call Barbara," he replies, hiding the surprise. "Let her know where he is and see if they can get some sort of international warrant ready." He knows that the more they stick to the books on this one, the more likely Nick will get a conviction instead of walk on account of Batman's interference.

"What, that's it?"

"Has it ever been?"

"First time for everything."

"This isn't one of those times. We'll keep an eye on Nick so he doesn't find a way to slither out of this."

"We?" She asks, surprised he's including her.

"I didn't stutter," he replies, bringing a grin to her face.

"Before you make it back, an alarm just went off at the art museum in downtown."

"On it," he nods before cutting the link between them as he speeds in the direction of the museum.


	36. Chapter 36

Considering Bruce is a billionaire who owns a private everything, Jazz expected to be flying to Barcelona in a private jet. Instead, she finds herself on a very commercial airline, stuck in coach between a snoring man and a loud gum-chewing teenager.

'_So much for perks,'_ Jazz thinks to herself as she pushes the sleeping man off her shoulder for the fourth time.

Although Terry was hesitant about it, it was Bruce's decision to send Jazz to Spain for two reasons, one of which unknown to her. The first, and obvious, is because Jazz has yet to fully recover from her injuries and go out on patrol in Terry's absence. The trip theoretically shouldn't be physically straining in any way. The second reason is Bruce's way to test her restraint. The trust and respect he put in her at their first meeting was lost when she continued to disobey rules. Now he needs a reason for it to return, and the best way he knows how is to send her straight to her foe. It's a risky plan with consequences that could turn either good or bad, but he knows whatever happens, it'll give him a better insight into the type of person she is.

Before she left, Bruce reminded her of the goal once she arrived in Spain: just watch him, don't try anything else; he kept her suit as insurance. Jazz couldn't help but notice how tight the leash felt, believing that if they pull it back just an inch further, she would definitely choke to death.

Relieved to finally land, she can't get out of her seat fast enough to escape her two neighbors. After claiming the small bag she brought with her, she grabs a cab and, using her high school Spanish, asks the driver in a broken accent to take her to the hotel Bruce had booked for her. The drive doesn't last long and she soon finds herself stepping out onto a small, somewhat busy street facing a small stone covered building. Coming from a big city with skyscrapers that could live up to their name, Jazz feels awkward and uncomfortable in such a "quiet" town. According to the driver though, this is considered rush hour: a barely crowded sidewalk and about ten cars whizzing past. Maybe she misunderstood him.

Jazz enters the small building to find a modestly furnished lobby with one person working behind the reception desk and a teenage bellboy lounging on a couch, playing on a hand held video game. As she walks towards the receptionist, she studies her surroundings wondering if time decided to give up on progressing this little hotel sitting in a shy town on the outskirts of a bustling city.

"Hola," she greets. "Se habla usted ingles?"

Looking up, the receptionist gives her a warm smile as she nods. "Yes, of course," she replies with a Spanish accent that could seduce any man. Pushing a brown strand of hair away from her face, she looks down at her screen. "What name is on the reservation?"

"Jasmine Douglas."

"Ah, here you are. You're room is on the third floor," she explains, sliding a key card through a slot before assigning the room number. "Will you be needing any help with luggage?"

Jazz turns to look at the bellboy still lying on the couch with legs resting on an armrest as he vigorously presses a button on his controller. "I'll manage, thanks," she replies knowing nothing is going to tear the teen away from a heated video game.

Taking the card, she starts heading up the stairs since the elevator is apparently out of service, while wondering if Bruce is using this as a way of punishment in his absence.

"I wouldn't put it past him to plan a situation like this just for me," she mutters to herself when a reminding pain shoots from her shoulder, stopping her halfway up the third flight.

Although her bag isn't too heavy, her shoulder is still too sore to handle any strain or sudden movements. Having no choice in the matter though, she heaves the suitcase up the last few steps and lets out a sigh of relief. Glad to finally reach her room, she holds her breath with anticipation as the door swings open to reveal a small but cozy room. The simple bed has clean and pressed white sheets, in a corner is a small desk complete with pen and paper, and they even managed to squeeze a small sofa chair next to the window. The wallpaper looks new, and the carpets have recently been cleaned. Impressed at the pristine condition being maintained, she walks in thinking that staying here for a few days may not be so bad after all.

Rolling her bag into a corner, she takes out her phone to update Bruce on her whereabouts. "Any particular reason why I'm staying here?" She asks as she checks the spotless bathroom.

"Less suspicious than posting you in front of Nick's building. You're a ten minute bus ride away from him."

"Hard to believe considering how sleepy this part of town is."

"You're staying with locals who hold on to tradition and community values, but don't be fooled. They have the same technology as any other city."

"So now that I'm here, what's next?"

"Barbara has alerted the Spanish police, but since they have to follow protocol and their tangling judicial system before they can produce a warrant for arrest, you have to make sure Nick doesn't suddenly disappear."

"Can't I just use a tracker on him?"

"No. He could recognize you if he sees you and know we're on to him."

"You're doing this old school," Terry's voice explains in the background. "You remember the lessons I gave you on that, right?"

"Yes," Jazz lies, regretting the fact she didn't pay enough attention at the time.

"Keep your distance, stay with a crowd, look casual, fit into the background," Terry reminds her; she could tell from his tone that he's rolling his eyes. "And always have a valid alibi explaining you're presence."

"And remember Jasmine," Bruce starts before she interrupts.

"Yeah, yeah, there to keep an eye; I know. Any idea how long I'm going to be here?"

"Three to four days in the least."

"Fine, anything else?"

"Yeah," Terry replies, "Bring back a souvenir."

Rolling her eyes, she hangs up the phone as a smile crosses her lips. She flops down on the bed and stares at the bare ceiling as she lets out an exhausted sigh. As her eyes slide shut and a tired yawn escapes her, she considers giving Henry a call to let him know what's going on. Before she could act on it though, her body relaxes and her mind quiets down, visiting dreamland within a few minutes.

* * *

Sometimes it's hard to decipher dream from reality, especially when the wave of emotions feel so real and overwhelming. Dreams are an enigma because of its strong influence on its sleeper; it's an unconscious state of mind that can make dreamers cry, scream or laugh before waking to realize none of their experiences are real. The most frightening experience they could have before that waking moment though, is watching a good situation unexpectedly turn frighteningly horrible, the worst part being the helplessness that follows.

Jazz's dream takes a sudden turn into nightmareville when she finds herself trying to run from the revving chainsaw somewhere in the darkened distance. Her legs feel heavier than stone, as though running in a knee-deep pool of molasses. As the chainsaw's screaming motor comes closer and closer, her chest tightens with fear, making breathing difficult. She tries to scream, but no sound comes out; she keeps mouthing the word "help" hoping someone could hear her. Soon the roar of the chainsaw is so deafeningly close, Jazz squeezes her eyes shut, covers her ears with her hands, and begins to wheep.

Then, everything falls eerily silent. For a confusing moment, Jazz takes a look around the darkness to find nothing there. There isn't an echo, a movement, or even a shadow. With her voice still muted, Jazz tries to ask if anyone was there, but no sound escapes her mouth. She begins spinning in place, too afraid to venture forth, and after turning for the third time, her father's pale face suddenly appears, making her fall back. Andrew stands at full height, but his body is withered and emaciated, his face colorless and sickly with dark circles around his eyes, red hair turned white with age, and blue eyes dark with disappointment. Jazz crawls backwards as she tries mumbling an apology.

"It was Nick," Andrew croaks in a raspy voice. "Nick. Nick killed me, and you're not doing anything about it. You know, Jazzy, you know and you're not doing anything. Not doing anything." He keeps repeating the words like a broken record, and their effect is clear on Jazz's frightened, tear stained face. "You're not avenging my death. Not doing anything," he continues with a rising tone as he approaches his daughter. "You know it was Nick and you're not doing anything."

'_No, please, daddy, please,'_ she desperately thinks but can't say as sobs take over her hyperventilating lungs. _'Daddy, please; I'm sorry.'_

"Not doing anything. Nothing. Nothing!" He yells before the powerful chainsaw appears in his hand.

"Daddy, no!" She gasps when her eyes fly open.

Still panting, Jazz shoots up to find herself in the clean hotel room and the morning sun shining through the small window. Her phone buzzes underneath the pillow she was sleeping on, startling her at first before she realizes the vibration may have been why the chainsaw manifested. As she tries to steady her breathing, she fishes it out and finds Henry to be the caller.

"Hi, Henry," she finally greets once composed.

"I like how you called me the minute you land," he sarcastically starts trying to act annoyed.

"Sorry, I fell asleep before I had the chance."

"So I take it the flight was exhausting."

"Don't get me started," she replies rubbing her eyes with a hand. "How's the cat?"

"Uh, when did you say you were coming back?"

"Don't tell me you hate him already. It's been one day, Henry."

"It's not that. He's just so shy he won't even come out of the closet to eat."

"He'll be fine. Just ignore him," she replies, wishing Zee was there to comfort her. "So how are you?"

"Little lonely at night," he smoothly replies, making Jazz smile. "You never said when you'll be back."

"A few days I hope."

"So do I. Listen," he starts a little hesitant. "I can't seem to find Ethan."

Frowning, Jazz straightens up. "Why?"

"He's changed his alias six times; that makes it kinda hard to track him."

"But is it impossible?"

"I can't promise anything, if that's what you mean, but I know I can't do it before the trial."

Jazz lets out a short sigh. "It's not about the trial. I just want to get in touch with him, to talk to him, you know?" She explains, shuddering when she remembers her nightmare.

Even though she knows her father would never say such terrible things to her, she feels Ethan is the only one who can validate that truth and relieve her fears.

"I know," Henry sympathetically replies without elaborating how much he really understands. "Anyway, my shift is about to start. I'll call you later."

Bidding a good-bye, she hangs up and checks the time, realizing it's time to start the work she was sent to do. Tiredly getting up, she fetches her bag and pulls out some clothes and her make-up bag. If she expects to sneak around Nick, she has to disguise her resemblance to her mother so she can go unnoticed. After changing into a pair of faded and torn blue jeans and a tight green tank top, she begins applying dark eye shadow and eye liner, purple tinted lipstick, and even adds a fake lip ring. Pulling her hair up into a bun, she pulls on a short, bleach blond wig and inserts her pink lenses finishing her make over.

"God, I look awful," she grimaces once she eyes herself in the mirror. After adjusting the wig, she grabs her bag and jacket and heads out the door to start a very long and tedious stake out.


	37. Chapter 37

It's Jazz's third day in Spain, and she can't believe how bored she finds herself considering she's in such a beautiful country. On her first day, she had managed to figure out Nick's daily routine, and found a good look out point by his office and apartment that weren't too conspicuous. The second day she had devoted to spying for sixteen hours before finally making it back to her hotel room fed up and exhausted. The morning of the third day she was reluctant to restart the routine, but with Terry motivating her over the phone, she manages to drag herself out of bed. Deciding to ditch the blond wig, she braided her black hair and wore a baseball cap instead. She left the dark make-up and pink lenses on, but her lips remained cherry red.

She spent the last five hours staring through a pair of binoculars into Nick's office window before he finally takes a lunch break. Relieved to leave the roof of the opposite building, Jazz quickly takes the fire escape down and follows Nick to a café a few blocks away. After making sure he is seated at a table enjoying his sandwich, she lingers around the shops a block away looking like a typical American tourist searching for a unique souvenir. Keeping a mindful eye at the café's door, she takes her time admiring some of the whittled figurines lined on some shelves.

When she picks up one carved into a flamenco dancer, her eyes look up to find Barbara's face glaring at her through the space between the shelves. Startled for a moment, she almost drops the statue as she takes a step back.

"What are you doing here?" Jazz gasps as Barbara rounds the shelf to face her.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Uh," she tries thinking of an excuse that could fool the commissioner, "study abroad program for next semester. They offered a preview for the course."

"That so?" Barbara asks unconvinced before narrowing her eyes. "If you're not on a plane to Gotham in five hours, Jasmine, I'm going to have you arrested for obstruction."

"I'm not doing anything," she argues, too occupied with hiding her jitteriness to realize the threat is an empty one; Barbara doesn't really have any jurisdiction in a foreign country. "There's nothing wrong with watching someone."

"That's called stalking, and I'll arrest you for that, too."

"Look," Jazz starts in an attempt to reach a compromise, "from what I understand, you don't want anyone messing around with police business. I'm respecting that and, to prove it, I don't even have my suit," she adds the last phrase in a hushed voice.

"Suit or no suit, _you_ shouldn't be here," Barbara replies with a tone cold enough to freeze boiling water.

"You'd rather have Terry here instead?" Jazz asks, taken aback.

"At least he knows how to control himself."

Jazz has a hard time believing that the stab of pain she feels isn't a physical one, but it hurts just as much as her sustained injuries. Barbara has finally expressed her resentment regarding Jazz taking on the mantle. She knows Barbara didn't like the way she handled Max Hemming, but she had no idea the original Batgirl didn't approve of _her._ Staring at the figurine still in her grasp, Jazz takes a moment to process the statement before responding.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," she starts, without looking at Barbara's hardened face. "But I was the one asked to come. I'm not planning on getting in your or anyone else's way, and if you want to arrest me, go ahead." Hiding her disappointment, Jazz looks up. "But I'm not going anywhere."

The two women hold a chilling gaze before Barbara breaks it by turning and leaving the little shop. Letting out a relieved sigh, Jazz looks down at the statue still in her hand. During her stare down with Barbara, she didn't realize she gripped the delicate dancer tight enough to break it. So when she opens her hand, the thin arm that holds the fan falls to the floor making Jazz curse under her breath. Bringing it up to the counter, she apologizes and pays the equivalent of twenty dollars before walking out to follow Nick back to his office.

* * *

"Anyone ever tell you that you're an excellent judge of character, McGinnis?" Jazz sarcastically asks Terry over the phone.

Reaching the roof of her second sentry adjacent to Nick's apartment, she makes herself comfortable on the make shift chair she made out of cinderblocks and her jacket, and pulls out her small but powerful binoculars from her bag.

"Who are we talking about?" Terry's says, his voice sounding distant suggesting he diverted her to speaker mode as he gets dressed for the night's patrol.

"Gordon. We bumped into each other earlier today and had a pleasant conversation."

"What did she say?"

"That she more or less hates me."

"Hate is a strong word."

"No, it's rather mild actually. How did you win her over?"

There is a momentary pause before she hears Terry pick up the phone and press a button. "It's complicated," he explains.

"What do you mean?"

He hesitates to recount the last tale starring the Joker. "It's a story for another time."

"That serious?" She asks looking through her binoculars when a light shines in Nick's living room.

"It's not a subject I like discussing over the phone," he explains as Jazz watches Nick walk around his condo, chattering away on his phone.

"Well, got any advice for me?"

"This you have to figure out on your own; sorry."

"Come on, Ter. I'm desperate to please the original Batgirl."

"Why?"

"Cause she deserves to be proud of whoever carries on the mantel she created."

"You realize you're talking about the commissioner here, right? Her goal is to have a Gotham that _doesn't_ depend on vigilantes."

"But for the time being, she respects you, and wants me out."

The two remain silent, one not knowing how to respond, and the other not knowing whether to press on. A full minute passes before Terry clears his throat.

"If it's any consolation, I don't want you out."

"Tell that to Barbara," she retorts before she could bite back her words.

Terry frowns at the unappreciative reply. "Hey, come on."

"Sorry; slipped out." Letting out a bored sigh, she sits back to watch Nick make himself comfortable on his couch and turn on his theater sized TV. "How much longer do the Spanish police need?"

"No more than a day hopefully."

"Why is this taking forever?" She asks with a groan.

"International law likes making things a little difficult."

Another irritated sigh. "Or they hate me, too. Anything going on tonight?"

"No; I'm going to be as bored as you," he lies, frowning when he hears the police radio call in a plastics factory catching fire and unpredictably exploding every few minutes. Instead of hanging up, he hurries to the car and diverts Jazz to the com link as he speeds out of the cave.

"You haven't been watching the same guy for three straight days, so you don't know the meaning of bored," She replies watching Nick pick up another incoming call.

"At least I'm trying to keep you entertained."

"I know. It helps a little."

Suddenly, Nick shoots up from his seat looking worried. Frowning, Jazz straightens up and zooms in on him. After flailing his arm a few times, he hangs up the phone and rushes to a closet pulling out a suitcase.

"Shit, he knows," Jazz informs Terry as she stands.

"Knows?"

"Nick just got a call, and now he's packing his stuff. I'm going to try to stall him. Is there anything Barbara can do?"

"I'll get in touch with her. And Jazz," Terry stops her from hanging up. For a moment, she thinks he's about to repeat the same warning Bruce had given her before she left, but she's surprised with what he says instead, "be careful."

"I will." Hanging up, she grabs her bag and rushes down the fire escape as she tries to conjure up a plan good enough to distract him.


	38. Chapter 38

Taking a quick look around to make sure she's alone, she lies down on the concrete floor and, with the futuristic car propped up on landing stilts, she pushes herself underneath it. Using her pocketknife, she first cuts the car alarm wires. Shifting to the right to reach the engine, she then shoves the small blade into the ignition box destroying the coils that help start the car. Satisfied, she quickly pushes herself out and hides behind a support column just as Nick rushes out of the elevator doors.

It doesn't take him long to hurry over to the car, and once he stuffs the luggage in the trunk, he tries turning the car on. When nothing happens, he tries a few more times before getting out. Nick grunts a curse, gives the car a kick and takes out his phone to call a cab. According to half the conversation and Nick's fuming reaction, the taxi company won't be able to send out a car for at least another half hour because of college night.

With a grin plastered on Jazz's face, she unnoticeably follows him out the garage and watches him head to a bus stop. To avoid raising any suspicions, Jazz races to the next stop, arriving barely a few minutes before the bus. Composing herself in time, she calmly boards it and, for a second, her eyes lock on Nick seated in the middle row. She moves past him, sitting a few rows behind him, and keeping her gaze glued on the nervous rider who obsessively checks his watch every few seconds.

She continues to play her role as a random bus rider and takes out a stick of gum to loudly chew on. At the next stop, a few passengers take their time climbing off making Nick more antsy and Jazz smile a little. Seeing him so anxious is rewarding since it's a punishment in itself. The anticipation and suspense is always the worst part of anything, be it a drama, thriller, or guilty criminal about to spring a trap. With twenty minutes left until they reach the airport, Nick takes a look around the bus to count how many passengers are left and sees only one: Jazz.

She blows a bubble out of her gum, hiding part of her face whilst giving him a look of indifference bordering on annoyance. With the hat, make-up, and bubble, he doesn't recognize or give her a second glance before bringing his attention back to the front of the bus. Popping and returning her gum to her mouth, she continues chewing as she interprets the situation they are in.

No one is on the bus, except for the cameras that act as driver. Nothing can stop her from taking him out with two punches, three at most, wrap him up and hand him over to the police; tempting, but crazy. If she goes through with it, she could jeopardize everything, and never achieve the proper justice giving him a chance to run free again. What troubles her though, is the trial he is going to face; for all she knows, the jury could be paid off to side in his favor, which sends him right back to freedom. Suddenly, she remembers her dream as she imagines Nick smiling on his way out of court. The accusations Andrew hissed in her dream send shivers up her spine, making her look down at her fiddling fingers in thought.

She has the rare opportunity to finally achieve her overdue revenge and deliver exactly what Nick deserves. A voice in the back of her head moves forward to argue how some sleazy, overpaid lawyer will find a way to set this man free. Why not avoid wasting tax dollars and a jury's time, and do it yourself? Sure she will get caught and sent to life in prison, but at least justice is rewarded, and the haunting dream she had will stop emotionally crippling her each time she thinks of her father.

Her fingers stop fiddling as a tight fist forms in the place of her nervous habit. '_There's nothing to it,'_ the voice tries convincing her. _'You know fifteen different ways to kill a man, five of which are very painful.'_

She gently shakes her head to quiet down those thoughts, but the more she tries repressing, the clearer her father's pale, sunken face becomes. _'You did nothing!' _His voice screams when she closes her eyes. Her very soul is being torn apart; any sense of logic drowns as the voices of her father and the demons she hid years ago emerge to torment her.

'_He deserves it after all the torture he put you through. He ruined what could have been a perfect life, a perfect family. No memories of abuse, of pain, of struggle. He deserves it.'_

She sets her jaw and raises her eyes to glare at the back of Nick's blond head. _'He deser—'_

The sound of her chiming phone wakes her from the trance she was in. Pulling it out, she finds Terry has sent her a message, the contents of which she ignores. The only word she focuses on is the sender's name.

'_If she hadn't left you, I wouldn't have you as a partner.'_ Terry once said that to comfort her; it worked then and it works now.

The fists she made unfurl and her jaw relaxes as she remembers some of the fonder memories she has collected. Terry wouldn't have had her as a partner, because she never would have learned to fight. Her fateful meeting with Henry wouldn't have happened, and she wouldn't be so happily involved with him. Had she not stood up to her first caretaker, she would have moved through life as a shy, cautious girl who would blindly swim with the current.

'_You have to persevere to earn what you deserve.'_

It was a lesson her father taught her years ago, and she finds herself surprised by suddenly remembering it. The sick and tired face she dreamt fades away along with the disturbing voices that are screaming in her head. Looking through her bag, she pulls out the old picture she found in the mangled convertible a few weeks ago. Smoothing it out, she smiles at it when she remembers the day that was captured on film.

Jazz was reluctant to go to the Independence Day parade that day because of the many fears that held her back. She was afraid of being trampled and pushed around, she didn't know anyone there, and she was too shy to meet anyone new. With a lot of persuasion, her father managed to get her and Nicole to the hustle of the day. As soon as they made it to the crowded sidewalk, Jazz clung to her father's leg as though her life depended on it. She nervously looked away anytime someone smiled at her, and she took shelter behind Andrew when another kid asked to play.

Sensing his daughter's agitation, Andrew made it his mission to make her smile. Trying to soothe her with words wasn't going to work, so, instead, he picked up the four year old and sat her on his shoulders. At first, Jazz clung to her father's head for fear of falling off, but as he started walking around to visit the vendors set up by the barricades, she began to loosen up.

Being high up on his shoulders, the crowd seemed less intimidating. She didn't shy away this time when people smiled at her, and she even started waving at the jugglers who performed on the corner. She giggled when a balloon vendor placed a crown shaped balloon on her head; and when the parade started, she excitedly pointed at the different floats that moseyed by asking her father if he saw "that one".

The bright smile her father wears in the picture wasn't there because of the celebrations, but because he succeeded in helping his daughter smile that day. When the realization strikes her, Jazz feels ashamed for ever thinking her father would want revenge in any way. People can keep saying that her father "only wanted her to be happy" till their faces turn blue, but they never know how hard that is to believe. It may have taken years, but she finally comes to accept that fact to be true. With a fresh and optimistic determination, Jazz tucks away the picture as the bus approaches the airport.

The two get off, and only for a moment, Jazz breaks away from Nick as he rolls his luggage into the airport. He hurriedly approaches a kiosk and searches for available flights out of Spain. Taking a quick look around, Jazz spots a TSA officer and lets a sly grin form on her face when an idea pops into her head.

She approaches the officer as she feigns uneasiness. "Excuse me, sir," she starts.

"Yes?" He asks looking down at Jazz.

"I need to bring something to your attention," she turns to face Nick's direction. "You see that man over there?" She points at him with a shaking finger.

"Yes."

Turning back, she starts shifting her weight. "Well, he looks pretty suspicious to me, know what I'm saying?" She watches the officer narrow his eyes to study Nick. "I mean, he's sweating bullets like he's hiding something, and he keeps looking around like he's paranoid." She leans closer to whisper, "I think he's a terrorist."

Stiffening at the threatening word, he presses a hand to his ear and contacts the other officers in the building. Giving the warning in Spanish, he wastes no time in rushing over to Nick just as he picks up his boarding pass. Surprised to suddenly be surrounded by TSA agents pointing guns at him, he freezes in place and begins trembling. Trying to hide a growing smile, Jazz manages to disappear into the panicking crowd before remembering Terry's still unread message.

Sneaking off to a quieter area, Jazz opens her phone to read:

"Barbara's on her way to the airport with the arrest warrant. Should be there soon."

When she looks up from her phone, she catches a glimpse of Barbara confidently walk in and smile when she finds a frightened Nick already subdued by twelve TSA officers. Letting out a satisfied and much anticipated sigh, Jazz turns on her heel, and strolls out the door to grab the next bus back to her hotel. The feeling of accomplishment and pride lingers all the way back to the room, and her smile doesn't fade even after she finally falls into a restful sleep.


	39. Chapter 39

Taking a look around the busy airport, Terry searches for Jazz's raven head among the swarm of people at conveyor belt 13. It doesn't take him long to find her standing with arms crossed as she scans the bags that go by, secretly hoping hers isn't the one that got lost.

"Welcome back," he greets once he reaches her side.

Looking up at him, she gives him a small smile. "Good to be back." She returns her watchful eyes to the belt.

"How was the flight?"

"Usual complaints: bad food, crying baby, and chatty old lady. Did the media catch wind of the whole Nick situation?"

"Unfortunately. Did you have to call him a terrorist?" He asks, repressing a smile.

Jazz shrugs before stepping forward to pick up her luggage. "Thought it would be fun; kinda like pulling a fire alarm, ever done that before?"

"Uh, no," he replies, beating her to the bag and pulling it off the belt for her.

"You should try it sometime; crying wolf is very liberating."

"I'll keep it in mind the next time I'm feeling antsy," he quips as they start walking towards the elevators. "Anyway, that terrorist stint delayed the arrest. He's stuck being interrogated right now. Once they're done, he'll be flying back here to face trial."

"Any way he's going to weasel out of this?"

"Not likely. The second he's released, he's going into Barbara's custody and she'll be escorting him back." Getting off the elevator, they begin walking towards Terry's parked car

"What about the goons who were after my mom and me?"

"Well, since Nick can't give any orders, we figure you two are safe," he explains as he places the bag in the trunk. When Jazz quietly nods as she gets into the passenger seat, Terry wonders if she might still be traumatized. "If you're still on edge about that, you can stay at my place for the night," Terry offers as he climbs into the driver's seat and starts pulling away.

"I'm fine," Jazz replies staring out the window.

"You sure?"

"Sounds like you're more worried than me." Terry shrugs. "I know what you're thinking. If Falon managed to warn Nick, then nothing's stopping Nick from calling a hit on me."

"He just seems pretty determined to get you out of the way."

She lets out a defeated sigh. "Relax, Henry's staying over."

"Henry, huh? You guys seem to be getting closer."

Awkwardly squirming in her seat, Jazz winces when she realizes she has yet to tell Terry about her relationship. "Uh, well, yeah," she starts, trying to bring herself to look at him. "About Henry, we're actually kinda dating now."

"Dating?" Terry asks, raising his brows in surprise. "Since when?"

"Last week. I meant to tell you…"

"Don't you think you're going a little too fast?" He asks, unintentionally coming off as disapproving.

"No; why?" She replies, frowning.

"Well, you just reconnected."

"So?" She asks, feeling a bit attacked.

"Never mind," Terry sighs as he turns a corner. The rest of the drive continues in uncomfortable silence before he pulls up by her apartment building.

"Thanks for the ride," Jazz quietly mutters as she opens the door.

"Hey," he grabs her arm stopping her from stepping out. "Look, I didn't mean to offend you."

"Your point, McGinnis?"

"I don't have one; I was just looking out for you."

Instead of shooting a snide remark his way, Jazz locks eyes with him for a moment before nodding. "I appreciate that, but trust me on this one."

"Fine." Letting go of her, the two climb out of the car and Terry pulls out her bag from the trunk. "So, see you at the cave tonight?"

"Sure," she replies. "Oh, and before I forget." Rummaging through her handbag, she pulls out the whittled flamenco dancer that she broke when she was at the Spanish gift shop. Grinning, she tosses it to Terry.

Grimacing at the amputated arm, Terry turns to watch her walk away before rolling his eyes and getting back into his car. "God knows what she'll get me for my birthday," he mutters to himself as he drives off.

* * *

After managing her way to the Douglas estate by switching a few subway stops and grabbing two buses, Jazz finally makes it to the front door of the mansion. More relieved to arrive than nervous to be there, she rings the doorbell and waits for the door to swing open. It isn't long before Nicole answers it and warmly invites her to the kitchen. Although Jazz's demeanor upon entry is cold, Nicole is grateful that her daughter accepted the invitation for lunch. Once Jazz gets settled at the kitchen island, Nicole starts building an egg-salad sandwich to her liking and tries to keep the meal simple and casual.

"I'm glad you came," Nicole starts as she slides the plate in front of Jazz, who shrugs in reply. "I'm going to give you the key to this place and you can live here if you like."

"Too far from school," Jazz replies staring at the whole wheat bread covering the contents of the sandwich.

"Speaking of which, do you need help with tuition?"

"No; I'm managing."

Feeling a bit disheartened at the curt reply, Nicole quietly returns the ingredients to the fridge before sitting across from her daughter with a glass of water in her hand. "Well, I noticed you don't have a car. I could help you get one if you like."

"I get around fine without one. Why did you invite me here? I already went over everything with your lawyer and we rehearsed my testimony."

"I know you have questions about our family. I want to give you all the answers you're looking for before I have to go back to France."

"And when is that?"

"Once the trial is over tomorrow. I'm sorry it's short notice, but I've been away from my business too long." Jazz quietly nods and takes a sip of her juice. "Aren't you hungry?"

"No, not really. Sorry you went through the trouble."

"Don't worry about it," Nicole tries reassuring with a smile.

"So how did you get out of the obstruction charge?"

"With a good lawyer and a small fortune. I guess when your life is in danger, obstruction can be looked over if you pay the right price."

After a short silence, Jazz starts twirling her cup and she hesitantly asks, "What was dad like?"

"It's about time you asked," her mother replies with relief.

Getting up, she picks up an old photo album from an adjacent counter and takes a seat beside her daughter. Opening the slightly worn book, the first picture Jazz sees is of her parents' wedding day.

"You keep old-school photos?"

"That's exactly what's wrong with today's youth: no sentimental value," Nicole replies with a smile as she flips to a different page. "That was on our third date," she starts, pointing at a picture of Andy and herself seated in a bowling lane. "He sucked so much at bowling, I thought there was no way I could lose on purpose."

A more relaxed smile stretches on Jazz's lips as Nicole recalls the story and moves on to other memorable moments in life. The tension that was suffocating the room unnoticeably lifts and disappears as Nicole becomes more animated and Jazz laughs at some of the stories told. Before the two know it, lunch turns to dinner, and the barely existing bond between the two women strengthens with every passing tale. By the time Jazz has to leave, comfort and calmness take over her usually abrasive nature, and stay with her all throughout training.


	40. Chapter 40

It's over. She can't believe it. A six letter word ends it, brings justice, closure, everything she's been looking for. The deliberation is quick, the verdict unanimous, the sentence pleasing: life without parole. Bruce was right; the judicial system is working. Upon hearing the word, her mother breathes a sigh of relief, and she catches Terry smiling from the corner of her eye.

But she doesn't move. She doesn't speak. She just watches Nick stand up to let two men escort him out with his head hanging low, wishing he never got caught. Even after he disappears behind the door, Jazz can't take her eyes away from it. She doesn't blink. She doesn't smile. She was so ready to give up her own life to deliver the punishment he deserved, the punishment she thought he wasn't going to get. But she just can't believe that the system worked.

"Jazz?" Terry asks, trying to snap his partner out of the trance he finds her in. When she doesn't move, he frowns with concern and leans closer to whisper. "Jazz, are you okay?"

She finally meets his gaze, but her gray eyes seem hollow and dull. "I'm fine."

Suddenly getting up, she moves past him, and walks out of the courtroom pushing past the hovering cameras and ignoring the yelling reporters. Clutching her jacket close, she walks into Gotham's windy streets heading in a familiar direction. After fighting the gusts for ten minutes, she finally walks past the open cemetery gates and up the path that leads to the person she's looking for.

"Hi daddy," Jazz starts, kneeling in front of the headstone. "I, uh, I got you something." Taking out a stuffed animal from her bag, she places it at the base of the stone. "Remember Roger? You won him for me at the fair. I'm sorry I didn't bring him when mom took me away, but I didn't lose him." Jazz tries to smile, but she ends up looking down at her fiddling fingers. "We got Nick. You should thank Terry and Henry for that." Lifting her eyes, she studies the engraved name for a quiet moment before she scoots closer to wipe away the dust and debris.

"Daddy, there's something you should know," she hesitantly continues as she slowly traces the letters of his name. "In Spain, when I was on that bus," her hand hovers over the word "father" for a moment before she begins tracing it. "I was thinking of things you—" She pulls her hand away, takes in a breath and stares at Roger. "Things you wouldn't be proud of. Dad, I wanted to get rid of Nick myself, and the only reason I didn't was because Terry distracted me. Now though," she hesitates, her muddled eyes looking at the name.

"The thoughts won't stop. Daddy, I'm scared of myself," she confesses with a quivering voice. "I'm scared of what I could do sometimes." Lowering her eyes to her knees, she wipes away a stray tear. "I just wish you were here to help me." She rises to stand, finding it hard to leave him; she rests a hand on the top of the headstone as she says her last heartfelt good-bye, and walks away as quietly as she came.

When she reaches the gates, she spots a familiar figure seated on the bench just outside the entrance. After making sure her eyes are dry from tears, she takes a seat beside Terry. "You followed me?"

"Not all the way in," he replies straightening up. "Feel better?"

She takes in a deep breath and slowly lets it out. "A little," she lies.

"Can we celebrate now?"

She lets a small smile cross her face. "What did you have in mind?"

"Beer and pizza," he replies getting up. "I know a good place just up the street."

"Lead the way."

* * *

The confessions she shared with her father's tombstone continue to mull over in her mind for days, becoming particularly persistent at night when she dons her cowl. They obsess her mind, making her lose sleep over the matter; and when she does finally dream, all she sees is that day on the bus. The question of "what if" hauntingly floats in her mind, a disturbing scenario replaying in her head, the sound of a neck snapping making her flinch.

Her fear exacerbates when rage boils within her every time she comes across a remorseless criminal, particularly those she knows to be repeat offenders. The temptations to just end them, permanently stop them from terrorizing the innocent, grow and distract her on the field. Two long weeks of sleepless nights pass, enduring torment that even Thorn can't dream of take its toll on her, finally cracking her sanity. Jazz forces herself down the cave's staircase, prepared to do the one thing she didn't think she would. She walks up to Terry hunched over the Batmobile's engine fixing a mechanical failure.

"Terry?" She starts in a quiet voice.

He looks up to find Jazz standing a few feet from the car with hands behind her back. "Hey, you're early. I'll be done soon, so if you want, you can start practicing upstairs and-"

"I'm not here for the lesson," she interrupts. "Terry, we need to talk."

Frowning, he wipes his hands on an oil rag as he approaches her. "What's going on?"

After nervously swallowing, Jazz manages to utter, "I, uh, I'm quitting."

"Piano? But it's only been a couple weeks."

"No." She holds out her hand to give him her suit. "Everything."

Terry's eyes widen with surprise. "What? Why?"

"I'm not fit for the job," she quietly replies.

"Jazz, if this is about what Barbara said-" Terry tries before she interrupts him.

"It's not."

"Then why?"

"The only reason I decided to do this was to get closure for my past. I have that now, so there's no point in continuing."

Narrowing his eyes to study her intently, he takes a moment to process her excuse. "You owe me a better explanation than that load of bullshit."

"Look," she starts, growing irritated. "I'm sorry if you feel I wasted your time, but I don't feel right doing this anymore."

"Why the hell not?"

"I just don't," she replies, shoving the suit onto his chest and forcing him to take it. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

"Harder? Jazz, you haven't given me a single legitimate excuse! What the hell changed?"

"You wouldn't understand," she mutters as she turns to leave. She hurries up the stairs leaving Terry baffled and angry by the outcome of her visit.

Appearing from a nearby alcove, Bruce comes out just in time to see Terry furiously ball up the suit and hurl it across the cave. "What's the matter?" He asks approaching his protégé.

"My fucking partner just quit," he growls as he stalks back to the car.

"Why?" Bruce asks, feeling both insulted and infuriated at Jazz for wasting time and effort just to end up quitting not even a year after starting.

Terry rests his hands against the car's hood, leaning forward as he lets out a disappointed sigh. "I don't know."

* * *

_Epilogue_

Nobody asks questions about you past in Poland's small town of Skwierzyna; as long as you respect their customs, you're welcome and Michael knows this. He's been there long enough to call the place home, having traded the carrots, potatoes, and onions he grew in his garden for goat cheese and weekly drinks at the pub. He befriended the owner of the one convenience store near his part of town. He trades his prized tomatoes for some good old-fashioned American beef jerky the owner imports; it's one of the few things he misses about his native country.

Life is simple here, having to look after the one bedroom cottage by himself, the collie-mix and three chickens keeping him company when he gets too lonely. He makes weekly trips to town, treating himself to that whisky on the rocks while catching up on the news by watching the pub's only television set. He never bought one for himself, preferring the solitude and silence of his tiny farm over the distraction a TV can bring. Nursing his favorite drink in his hands, he asks the bartender in Polish if he could switch the channel to CNN so he could watch news from home. Obliging with a nod, the bartender flips the channels, landing on the requested one before complimenting Michael on his improved accent.

Smiling, Michael cracks a joke, never failing to entertain the few friends he has before bringing his attention back to the news. Updated on the politics state side, he scoffs at the ludicrous promises politicians are making, realizing that not much has changed in DC in the last seventeen years. His eyes shift to the other side of the screen as he sips the smooth liquor; he has always been given the good stuff. He reads the stock graphs and numbers he's chosen to follow, not surprised by how well Wayne Corps has been doing.

He's glad Bruce took back control of his company, remembering the one time he met him when he saved World Chemistry from the brink of bankruptcy. That was a good day. He raises his tumbler to take another sip, but it freezes midair when an all too familiar face flashes on the screen under the title "CEO Nicolas Boris found guilty of murder". There Nick stands, trying to hide his grimacing face from the cameras floating in his face. What he couldn't believe though, is the image of the next person that flashes; his eyes widen at the fair face he knows to belong to his best friend's daughter.

"Jazzy," Ethan gasps, his glass slipping out of his calloused had and smashing against the bar, shattering into pieces much like the life he painstakingly built for seventeen years. However, it was her face, those lips still ruby red like he remembers that has him debating if it was finally time to come back home.

END

Hope you liked this new version and it was worth the read.

Lost in the Unconscious is the next installment that is up and running.

Don't forget to review! Thanks for stopping by!


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